


Callidus Prince and the Grim Unmasked

by ContraryToEverything



Series: Callidus Prince [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure, Drama, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-01 19:12:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11492865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ContraryToEverything/pseuds/ContraryToEverything
Summary: It's Callidus's (Severus) third year at Hogwarts, and his life has become more complicated as he navigates his newfound power, an old secret, and a custody battle that threatens to tear apart his friendship with Harry and Draco.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or the characters (other than OCs). Credit for that goes to J.K. Rowling.

“ _ Good evening!  This is the Floo to Floo Show on the Wizarding Wireless Network, and I’m your host Ars Cloche.  We've got a special program for you tonight, based on a remarkable discovery we've found: an old journal.  Now you may ask, what's so special about a journal?  I'll tell you now, gentle witches and wizards, it's a journal and a story.  It's a harrowing tale of survival.  Our protagonist only goes by the identifier of M-, but we don't need to know who M- is to hear her riveting tale.  We don't know what end M- came to, though we can guess that it wasn’t pretty.  What we do know is M-’s journey as she loses her one defense, her wand, and falls into the hands of the muggles…” _

 

Summer 1993

 

_ EXPLOSIVE CUSTODY BATTLE SHOCKS THE WIZARDING WORLD _ , the headline of the  _ Daily Prophet _ read. 

 

If Callidus hadn't been awake before, as he blearily padded down the wooden stairs, one hand on the railing while the other was lazily rubbing at his eyes, he was awake now.   He didn't know why he would think the headline had anything to do with himself, and yet, as he recalled the events of only a few short weeks ago, he couldn't help but think that the headline was no mere coincidence.  

 

Callidus was the only person at the breakfast table, surrounded by the scent of cooking bacon courtesy of the busy house elf.  Ever since Madam Filodoxos had lost her potions job (under the most mysterious circumstances, though Callidus hadn't asked for details, despite having his own suspicions), she had a tendency to sleep in.  And when Madam Filodoxos slept in, so too did Segnis Filodoxos.  After all, job or jobless, Madam Filodoxos’ personality was such that she couldn't help ruling the house.  A queen deposed was still a queen at heart.  As for their daughter, Caiside, she was likely having a lie-in as a matter of course.  Caiside had never been a morning person. 

 

He reached towards the newspaper, hesitant, as if expecting the paper to snap and bite him, before silently berating himself for his own foolishness.  Why should he assume that the article had anything to do with himself, Harry, and Draco?  Just because they happened to be blood brothers, it didn't mean anything, did it?

 

But as he unrolled the paper, revealing the moving photograph on the cover, his heart sank. There, on the front page, was a picture of Lucius Malfoy, in perfectly tailored robes with his snake-headed walking stick in hand, not a silver-blond hair out of place and his expression imperious.  He had a look of a man who knew his place in the world, who knew that he sat at the top of the hierarchy, and no number of lurid headlines could ever topple him from his lofty position. 

 

Lips thinned into a grim line, Callidus began to read. 

 

_ It has been a summer of surprises, as loyal readers of the _ Daily Prophet _ will know. The first great shock of the summer came in early July, when Albus Dumbledore, Order of Merlin, first class, Headmaster of Hogwarts, Supreme Mugwump, and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, called for the case of the infamous Sirius Black to be reopened, believing that a grave miscarriage of justice had been committed. _

 

_ It was a charge that rocked the Ministry of Magic, when it was discovered that Mr Black, assumed to be a mass murderer and follower of You-Know-Who, was sentenced to Azkaban without a trial. During the explosive hearing, Mr Black was questioned using veritaserum, presenting his evidence in the form of pensieve memories, decisively proving that it was one Peter Pettigrew who had committed the original murders, framing Mr Black, betraying James and Lily Potter, and condemning their only son and heir to a life as an orphan.  Peter Pettigrew is still at large. _

 

_ Mr Black was named the godfather of said orphan, the famous boy who lived, Harry Potter.  It seemed like a happily ever after for our dear Harry Potter, whose very name warms the hearts and souls of witches and wizards all across Wizarding Britain.  But alas, it was not to be. _

 

_ This reporter has recently learned that the young Mr Potter is in fact blood brothers with two others: Draco Malfoy and Callidus Prince, both Hogwarts Housemates.  To those readers who are unaware, brotherhood rituals, while not illegal, are heavily frowned upon due to the great risk to those involved, binding witches and wizards in such a way that they are both magical and legal kin.  Lucius Malfoy, father of Draco Malfoy, has put forth the claim that it is the Malfoys who are legal guardians to both Mr Potter and Mr Prince, contesting the fitness of both Mr Black, and Mr Prince’s guardians, the Filodoxos.  _

 

_  “It is in the best interests of Mr Potter and Mr Prince to make their home here with us in Wiltshire,” said Lucius Malfoy, his expression concerned and earnest. “Sirius Black, innocent though he may be, has spent over a decade in Azkaban, subjected to all manner of psychological horrors, and such a person is in no state to take responsibility of a child.  As blood brothers to my son, I would treat Mr Potter and Mr Prince as my own, and they would have a life free from all hardship and want.  Sirius Black may come from an Ancient and Noble House, but children need far more than an ancient name to live happy and secure lives.  As a father myself, I cannot simply sit by and watch this happen.” With their sprawling estate, there is no doubt that Mr Potter and Mr Prince would live in comfort and ease with the Malfoys. _

 

_  “His claims are preposterous!” said Mr Black, outside of St Mungo’s hospitals where he has been having regular meetings with a team of healers. “Harry is my godson, and I will do everything in my power to make sure that he is happy and well taken care of.  James and Lily had both fought for the Light in the war, and they would turn over in their graves if they knew that a Dark family was trying to take custody of their only son.”  Though there had been rumours about the Malfoys being linked to You-Know-Who, all charges against the family had been cleared.  _

 

The rest of the article was drivel, speculations on the part of the nosy and vulgar reporter.  Disgusted, Callidus tossed the newspaper aside, just as Caiside was coming down the stairs, still in her blue-white wrinkled pyjamas.

 

She blinked at him sleepily. “You look miserable,” she observed, not a single note of concern in her voice. “More so than usual.  Why is your hair always greasy nowadays?  It looks better when you're at Hogwarts.”

 

Callidus narrowed his eyes at the curly-haired girl. “There's no one here worth trying to impress,” he drawled. “As for being miserable -”  he pushed the newspaper in her direction across the wooden table, “apparently, there are some that think that your parents are unfit guardians.”

 

 “What are you talking about?  You know I never bother to read the  _ Prophet _ .”

 

He rolled his eyes.  “Yes, because ignorance about the world is something to take pride in.  Just read it.  It’s easier than explaining.”

 

Caiside let out an irritated huff, plopping down in one of the chairs across from him, and snatching up the newspaper with ill grace. “Has anyone ever told you that the way you talk is really old-fashioned?  You sound like someone who was raised during my mother's time, but more - more formal, if that's even possible.  If you think it makes you sound impressive, well, it doesn’t.” 

 

Callidus merely arched an eyebrow at the attempted barb.  He had no inclination to speak of his past, to admit that in a desperate attempt to scrub himself of everything related to his father, he had sought to emulate his mother’s mannerisms, and her pureblood deportment (not always succeeding, but he did his best).  And though he may have appeared self-possessed, the article had left him shaken.  It wasn't that he was particularly attached to the Filodoxos, though he was grateful for their kindness, and for treating him like a family member; it was just that he had never been able to shake the feeling of disquiet that Lucius Malfoy caused in him.  He did not know the other man's intentions, and did not trust that those intentions were for his good, or Harry's good.  If Lucius Malfoy wanted something, it was because it benefited himself, and having someone like Harry Potter in his grasp would be extremely advantageous for an ambitious man. 

 

And what if Lucius suspected that Callidus was the Severus Snape of so long ago?  What kind of things might Lucius want from a person who used to be a Potions Master?  It was an effort to keep himself from shuddering, as Caiside’s eyes scanned over the article.

 

By the time she was finished, she had gone silent.  She turned to look at Callidus, her dark eyes large and conflicted. “Do you want this?” 

 

He gave her an incredulous look, causing her to scowl.

 

 “Most people would be honoured - no, most people would be more than honoured - would probably cut off their own sodding limbs for this kind of connection to the Malfoys.”

 

 “I’m not most people,” Callidus answered. “Most people might consider how they would use the Malfoys.  I'm more concerned about how the Malfoys want to use us.” 

 

Caiside hummed, letting her eyes stray over the photo of Lucius Malfoy on the cover. “I can see how someone like him might want to use Harry.  But why would they want to use you?  I mean yes, you're a Prince, and it's an old name, but - I mean, they're Malfoys!  If anything, I'd think that they just wanted Harry, and just because you happen to be a blood brother, they had no choice but to take you, no offense, or anything.  And since when were you blood brothers anyway?  I can't believe the three of you actually did the ritual.  Can't something like that kill you?”

 

Clearly, she no idea. “Yes.  We've been bonded since first year.”

 

 “Huh. That's almost a Gryffindor-ish level of recklessness.”

 

 “The reminder really isn't appreciated.  The last thing I need today is to be compared to Gryffindors.”

 

Caiside smirked, before once again staring down at the newspaper. “So, what are you going to do?”

 

Callidus shrugged. “I'm not certain that there's very much I can do.  If asked, I'd say that I’d prefer to stay here.”

 

 “Well, hopefully my mum finds a job soon then.  It won't look good for us if she's still unemployed by the time this goes to trial.”

 

Callidus gave her a long look, but she refused to meet his eye.  He still had a feeling that she knew something, that whatever her mother’s erstwhile secretive job had involved, Caiside was aware of more than she let on.  But there was no sense trying to force her to speak of old secrets, and if it did relate to the Orange Madness like Callidus suspected, then at least the wizarding world was no longer plagued by that particular disease.  

 

Nonetheless, it was hard to resist piecing together the clues.  After all, using Dark magic gave one an immunity to this disease, and Madam Filodoxos had given him a book on Dark magic prior to him leaving for Hogwarts.  Whatever Madam Filodoxos intentions had been, it appeared that she wanted to keep him out of harm's way, at least.  Still, it was curious that when he had looked at Caiside’s magical signature, he had seen nothing that indicated Dark magic there, but then again, Caiside was rebellious enough that even if her mother had given her Dark spells to perform, Caiside would probably ignore them on principle.

 

They ate their breakfast in silence, until the arrival of an snowy white owl pulled Callidus from his reverie.  It was Harry’s owl, Hedwig. Harry hadn't written frequently over the summer, and with everything that was going on in his friend’s life, he wasn't surprised.  So, seeing a letter was a delight, although his pleasure was marred by this morning’s  _ Daily Prophet _ .  He took the letter from Hedwig, pushing his breakfast plate towards her so she could finish off his scraps as a treat.

 

When he unfolded the parchment, he was shocked by just how long Harry's letter was.  Harry had never been the sort to write long letters, but as Callidus’s eyes fell upon the first paragraph, he understood why.

 

_ Hello Cal! _

 

_ Did you know that quills exist that write down everything you say?  I can't believe I've never heard of them before now!  It's too bad we can't use these in class.  It would’ve saved me so much trouble - I hate writing with quills.  Sirius told me about these. I mentioned Sirius in my last letter, but that was before I had one of these quills, so I reckon I didn't tell you very much, did I?  _

 

_ Anyway, what I have told you so far?  Erm - well, when I first met Sirius, I was really nervous about it.  I mean, well, you read all the news stories, yeah?  They were saying such awful things, like how he was put in jail for murdering all those muggles, and betraying my parents, and I know that it turned out that he was innocent, but still!  And then to find out from Professor Dumbledore that he was my godfather?  It was just a lot to take in at the time.  I'm going to swear off reading the  _ Prophet _.  Rubbish, all of it.  I mean, at that time I had pretty much just arrived at Hogwarts after spending two horribly long weeks with the Dursleys, and did I ever tell you how horrible they are?  Because they are.  Horrible, that is.  _

 

_ So of course, I arrived at Hogwarts after being cut off from everything for two weeks, and just when I think I can relax, Dumbledore comes up to me, and his expression is all serious, so that I feel like I'm about to get detention, except for the fact that Dumbledore doesn't give out detentions, and he puts a hand on my shoulder which only makes me more nervous, and he says: “Harry, there's something that you need to know.”  _

 

_ At this point, I'm pretty much just sweating, thinking that he's going to tell me that I'm not allowed to stay at Hogwarts anymore, or worse, that I'm expelled, but then he says he has to tell me about my past.  He mentioned something called a Fidelius charm, and how my parents supposedly had Sirius as a secret keeper, except according to Sirius, they switched at the last minute to Peter Pettigrew.  _

 

_ When I think of Pettigrew, I just - aargh!  Huh, I didn't realize the quill would write that down.  That's kind of funny, isn’t it?  Anyway, as I was saying, when I heard that one of their old friends, Pettigrew, had betrayed them, it made me feel sick to my stomach, you know?  It was like eating something rotten, or like my skin was crawling with flobberworms.  How could anyone ever do something like that?  Betray a friend?  And then frame another friend for it?  _

 

_ I reckon I'm kind of getting off track, aren't I?  What was I even talking about?  Oh yeah, Sirius.  So then, Dumbledore tells me that Sirius is my godfather, and at this point, my mind pretty much feels like it's about to burst - I mean, a godfather?  Why did no one ever tell me before?  Well, I s’pose he was in jail - or Azkaban at the time, and everyone thought that he was a mass murderer, so if I knew, that would’ve just made everything worse. _

 

_ I'm not sure how Dumbledore thought I should’ve reacted.  Honestly, the first thing I felt when he told me was - shock, I s’pose?  What was I even s’posed to feel?  I thought that you and Draco were my only family.  It was like having my whole world turned sideways, finding out that there was someone else. _

 

_ The first time I met Sirius was at St Mungo’s.  That was where they kept him after they let him out.  I s’pose being in jail, and being stuck with - sod it, what’re they called again?  Oh yeah, Dementors - they're really creepy - kinda remind you of grim reapers, yeah?  Except that they suck out all your happiness.  Merlin! I can't believe that Sirius ever survived it.  I can't even believe that anything like that exists! _

 

_ You should’ve seen him, Cal.  I wish you had been there - it probably would’ve been easier for me to have you have and Draco nearby.  Sirius was just so skinny, kinda like those pictures I saw when I was still in primary school of people from the Holocaust.  His hair was greasy like yours when you don't use your hair potion, but it was kind of wavy, and dark, and long.  Now that I think of it, his skin was kind of like yours too, except even paler, and kind of waxy.  He looked a bit like a corpse, ‘cept he was still moving. _

 

_ When I saw him, I just froze.  What was I s’posed t’do?  He was practically a stranger.  But then he widened his eyes, and said: “James?”  That's my dad's name, in case you forgot.  He thought I was my dad!  I s’pose when people say that I look like him, they literally mean that I look like him.  I guess I was shaking my head, because then he was blinking, and he said: “No, not James.  You’re Harry, aren’t you?” _

 

_ There's something really unnerving about having someone look at you the way Sirius was looking at me.  It was like this weird mix of joy and sadness and a whole bunch of other things that I don't have words for.  I felt like I couldn't breathe.  I mean, he was still a stranger, so I couldn't exactly feel for him what he felt for me, could I?  I wanted to just turn around and run out of that hospital room, and just hide in Gryffindor Tower.  I must’ve looked it too, ‘cause then he looked away, like he was embarrassed, but then he said: “I'm glad to finally meet you again.  I hope -”  and then he was choking up, and his eyes were getting wet, and I felt - I dunno - bad for him. _

 

_ But you know what's weird?  Even though he was still a stranger, even though it was awkward and uncomfortable and a part of me wanted to leave, it still felt good.  It was like - I knew then that there was someone out there that actually - oh Merlin, I can't believe I'm saying this, but - loves me.  I feel like I've never had that before - at least not that I can remember.  Sod it, now I’m getting all soppy! _

 

_ Our next meeting after that was a lot easier.  We talked about Quidditch, which he loves as much as I do.  I - erm - I won't bore you with the details, ‘cause I know that you don't care about Quidditch, except that Slytherin wins. _

 

_ Oh Merlin, I can't believe I almost forgot!  You should have seen his reaction when he found out that I was sorted into Slytherin!  His mouth just fell open and I thought that I had given him a heart attack then and there.  He had that whole fish thing going, his mouth opening and closing, and then he said: “Slytherin?” in this sort of croak.  He looked so horrified.  I was actually scared that he would disown me.  But then he blinked, and said that Slytherin or not, I was still his godson, and he was still proud of me.  I feel like an idiot, but thinking about it still makes me grin.  Sirius may’ve spent twelve years of his life in jail but he's just so full of life.  Heh - and I’m still grinning like an complete git!  I'm glad no one's here to see me like this.  I’d probably never hear the end of it. _

 

_ Merlin!  I didn't realize my letter was this long already!  I'll write you more next time, or maybe I'll tell you when we meet in person. _

 

_ Your brother, _

 

_ Harry _

 

When Callidus finished reading the letter, he refolded it, tucking it away into his pocket.  Caiside was giving him a curious look, but he wasn’t in the mood to talk, and while she was his friend, he couldn't imagine himself confiding in her, the way he might with Harry.  Excusing himself, he climbed back up the stairs to his room.  

 

He had been wondering about Harry’s reaction to everything that had happened, and while he was happy that his friend was happy, he felt perturbed as well.  It was evident that this letter had been sent before Harry had found out about the impending custody battle.  If Harry had already formed an emotional connection to his godfather (and Harry’s exuberance had been radiating from the parchment), then how might his friend react to this newest news?  He wished he could be there for Harry, because even if he lacked the words of support, he was still a brother. 

 

-o-

 

It wasn't until this very year that Draco truly realized that he couldn't always get what he wanted in life.  Prior to that, his life had had a rather charmed quality to it, and his parents had never been able to say no to him, not in a serious sense.  Of course, there were moments when they did say no, such as in first year when he wanted his own racing broom, but Draco had been aware that ‘no’ actually meant ‘later.’  There had been no such thing as a ‘no’ that meant ‘no.’ 

 

His first year at Hogwarts had done nothing to disabuse him of that notion.  After all, he had ended up befriending the famous Harry Potter, and more than that, Harry became his best friend.  It was true that he had to share Harry with Callidus, and Draco did not like sharing, but Callidus turned out to be all right.  Besides, Harry shared Draco’s passion for flying, while Callidus didn't, and secretly, Draco thought that that meant that he and Harry were closer friends than Callidus could ever hope to be. 

 

On top of that, Pansy and even Blaise had an (aggravating) tendency to make fun of Draco’s closeness to Harry (and sometimes Callidus), but he knew that that was because they were jealous that Harry was his best friend, while they weren’t.  Other people’s jealousy was a gratifying thing.

 

But then, in second year, something changed, shifted, and where did it all go wrong?  Draco strongly suspected that the enchanted dragon-tooth pendant that he gave to Harry had something to do with it, though he would never admit this out loud to anyone, and could barely even admit it to himself.  Admitting that there was anything wrong with that pendant meant that he had to examine the motivations of his father, who had been the one to commission the enchantment in the first place.  Draco had specifically asked only for protective enchantments.  And no matter how he tried to reason it, he couldn't puzzle out how an enchantment that influenced a person towards a Dark affinity was protective.  He supposed that he could ask his father, but that would require asking his father, and the idea of needlessly interrupting his father with trivial questions made his stomach tangle up in knots.  His father was a busy man!  Draco just didn't want to disturb him, if he didn't have to.

 

What alarmed Draco the most about his second year at Hogwarts was that Harry had seemed like the same person, until the very end when Draco’s whole world was turned on its head.  One would think the that if Harry was being affected by foreign Dark magic, then Draco would be the first person to notice it.  One would think that if Harry had been hiding a secret, Draco would have been able to ferret it out.  But no, somehow, Harry had kept his secret for months and months, and yes, Draco might have noticed that Harry hadn't liked Euphemia Rowle, but how was he supposed to know that that dislike had run so deep that Harry would utterly humiliate her in front of all the Slytherins?

 

And then what happened after still caused chills to prickle across his skin whenever he thought about it.  He didn't even want to consider the word ( _ death, death _ , no, not that, anything but that _ ) _ , didn't want to think that his life could have ended, because things like close brushes with mortality didn't happen to Malfoys, did they?  

 

He did end up spending more time than he would have thought in the family library reading about the brotherhood ritual.  He learned that it was fatal if a betrayal had been perceived, but other emotions such as anger or sadness would have no effect.  But even that fact had made him want to scrub out his mind, and crawl into the safety of his bed where he didn't have to think about such matters.  He didn't want to have to be careful in his relationships with Harry and Callidus.  He didn't want to think about feeling betrayed by them, or being betrayed in turn.  It seemed so much easier when he was eleven years old.

 

But this year would be better.  Draco was sure of it.  His father had told him at the end of the term that as blood brothers, he would claim custody of Harry and Callidus.  Of course, when his father had seen his expression (it wasn’t his fault if he wanted to jump and whoop with delight!  If anything, his father should have been proud that he restrained himself to merely a grin!), he had said that there might be complications, and it wouldn’t do for Draco to get carried away by his hopes.  But Draco had faith in his father’s abilities, even if Harry had a godfather now (and according to the last letter he received, Harry was quite pleased with said godfather).  He was sure that Harry would be even  _ more _ pleased to be a Malfoy. 

 

But today was a special day.  Today was Harry's birthday.  Though they had spoken of planning a big party last year, Harry had told him that he didn't want a party, but that didn't mean that Draco didn't have anything planned.  It just meant that his plans were limited to what he wanted to do with Harry and Callidus, and there was a great deal that he wanted to do.  There would be flying involved, naturally, but they could also spend the day exploring the grounds of Malfoy manor, and playing with all of Draco’s new toys and gadgets and magical artifacts (from his own birthday in June), and a number of other things.

 

He was expecting Harry to arrive first.  He didn't know why he expected this, except that he typically spent so much more time with Harry, that it was Harry’s dark hair and green eyes he expected to see being spit out by the fireplace.  So, when Callidus stumbled out of the Floo, sending his near-shoulder length hair in disarray (though he regained his balance with enviable ease, long fingers brushing away the soot), Draco had only blinked at him.

 

Callidus arched one of his brows (yet another thing he did enviously well), and languidly said: “It's nice to see you as well.” 

 

Draco scowled and crossed his arms (not petulantly!), saying: “I was expecting Harry.”

 

Callidus’s dark brows furrowed as he peered around the room, but he did not make any remark the way that Harry would (“he's not here yet?” or “I thought he’d be here first.”) He did not even utter ‘indeed,’ as he was wont to do, or ask about Draco’s summer, though he already knew about Draco’s summer from what he had written in his letters. 

 

Instead, Callidus gave him a piercing look, and said: “Were you aware that your father was planning to try and gain custody of us?” 

 

The word ‘try’ had him gritting his teeth.  It wasn't a matter of trying; his father would  _ succeed _ , and Harry and Callidus would both be his brothers. “I might have known something,” he hedged, letting a hint of slyness enter his voice. 

 

Unfortunately, Callidus wasn't impressed by this statement. “Harry won't be pleased, you realize.”

 

 “What would you know?” Draco spat out.

 

Callidus hummed and Draco was not gratified to note that his friend’s voice had deepened.  It created the illusion that Callidus might be more mature, but Draco knew better than to believe that.  “If both of us were to live with you, or perhaps you and your mother, I don't think we would have any strong objections.”

 

Draco considered what had been left unsaid. “You mean to say you don't want to live with my father?  What's your problem with my father?”

 

Callidus pressed his lips together, evincing his search for a reason, or perhaps his search for a diplomatic way to express his reasons.  It wouldn't have mattered to Draco, he was already more than halfway offended. 

 

But before Callidus could formulate the words, the fireplace flared a vivid emerald green, and Harry tripped out, landing on his hands and knees upon the pale marble floor. “Bloody hell!” Harry swore, causing Draco to flinch.  What if his parents had heard?  They might not say anything to Harry, but Draco would certainly receive a firm lecture about the sort of company he kept, famous or no.  But then, Harry looked up at him, and his eyes were just as bright and angry as the fire had just been.  Instinctively, Draco took a step backwards.

 

With startling grace, Harry pulled himself upright, his hands clenched into fists as he snarled (yes, snarled!): “Did you know what your father was planning?  Did you know that he would try and take me away from Sirius?”

 

 “No one's trying to take you away from anyone,” Draco prevaricated. “You can still see your godfather as much as you wish.  But -”

 

 “So you did know!” Harry cried.  Draco felt a sharpness in his chest, and overwhelming pressure that made it difficult to breathe, and from the way that Harry’s eyes grew round, his friend and brother felt it too.  He could see Harry tightening and loosening his fists, see the way that he shuddered as he attempted to breathe deeply, and cool his emotions.  Draco wasn't trying to betray anyone.  Didn't they see that?

 

He kept his eyes on Harry’s, not looking Callidus’s way, though he could feel the other boy’s eyes on him.  “I thought you would have been glad to live with me.  Why wouldn't you want to live with someone who is your brother?” Draco said, almost calmly but not quite.

 

 “Because that isn't - it isn’t - arrgh!” Harry threw up his hands. “How would you feel if Sirius did the same to you?  What if he tried to take custody of you and Callidus?”

 

Draco’s eyes widened, horrified by the notion.  “He wouldn't dare!”

 

 “See?  I don't see  _ you _ leaping with joy the prospect of living with me!” 

 

 “It's not you, it's -” Draco faltered, cognizant of having just walked into the stream of reasoning that Callidus and apparently Harry were trying to make clear.  He wilted, unhappy with his own understanding. 

 

 “By the way, happy birthday, Harry,” said Callidus, handing him a small wrapped package (another potion, no doubt).

 

Harry started, blinking at his other friend. “Thanks, Cal.” 

 

Draco sighed, cursing his own wretched luck.  He had wanted to be the one to say ‘happy birthday’ first, and now, this whole conversation had made him look ill-tempered and belligerent. “Happy birthday,” he said anyway, “My  _ gifts - _ ” (he made sure to emphasize the plural), “for you are upstairs.” Instead of getting a single lavish present (which didn't exactly work out last year), he had instead purchased a great number of little things, anything that caught his eye and reminded him of Harry.

 

And finally, Harry was smiling at him, but it wasn't the wholehearted grin that he had been imagining.  Instead was a small and shy thing, like a fawn hiding in the shrubbery. “Can't wait to see them.”

 

 “I have our whole day planned out.  We can get something to eat first - or did you already eat at Hogwarts?  I had the house elves make your favourites -”

 

 “I can't stay all day,”  Harry cut in, before Draco laid out all his plans. 

 

 “You can’t - but why?” 

 

Harry rolled his bottom lip through his teeth, guilt making his eyes look woeful. “I promised Sirius that I'd visit.  He's been trying to clean out his old place in London, and we were going to set up my room for when -” Harry looked away.

 

Draco did not feel betrayed.  At least, that was what he repeated to himself, at least ten times in a row, probably more, because his chest was starting to hurt again, and he really, really wanted to remain alive. 

 

 “I'm sorry,” Harry said miserably, his breathing uneven, so that Draco knew that he felt the pain too, which meant that Callidus did as well.  He hated this.  He didn't want other people to know the unspoken emotions buried beneath his (hopefully) composed demeanour, even if those people happened to be his brothers.  It was so unfair!

 

Knowing that he wouldn't have Harry for the entire day, he mentally shifted around his organized schedule, prioritizing the activities that would be the most enjoyable.  There was some childish part of him (probably stamping its feet in a tantrum, not that he had done anything like that since he was eight - or perhaps ten), that wanted to be spiteful and make Harry as miserable as he was now.  Fortunately, his Slytherin cunning prevailed, realizing that if he could make this day as fun as possible, then maybe Harry would realize just what he was missing by choosing not to live here, and every moment spent with his godfather would be spent doubting his choice. 

  
And to some extent, his plan seemed to work - at least the part where Harry was having fun. But the gloomy storm cloud that had been condensing over Draco’s heart refused to dissipate, raining down hurt, and hurt, and he did  _ not  _ feel betrayed!  So why did it have to hurt so much?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my stories, I imagine the uniform described in the books (plain black students' robes, no House colours, no ties). 
> 
> Also, I don't plan on any Dumbledore bashing. Assume that what happens in this chapter happened with good intentions rather than outright manipulation. This is considered background to the story (since it's related more to Harry than Callidus), so Dumbledore's motives aren't of central importance. But to anyone who's curious, consider how Dumbledore might feel about Harry & Cal in Malfoy hands.
> 
> I hate writing newspaper articles...but writing Harry's stream-of-consciousness letter was amusing.
> 
> Also, still no shipping, but teenage hormones will start to affect some of our characters


	2. Chapter 2

“ _... hope this journal won't end up in the hands of the muggles, but luckily it's charmed so that the words will only be seen with a revealing charm, so it’s disguised even if I don't have my wand.  I suppose I should start from the beginning.  My name is M-, and if you’ve found this journal, and can read its words, then I probably didn’t make it… _ ”

 

Upon losing her job Madam Filodoxos also lost the majority of her private lab, the rare and fabulous ingredients taken away, leaving gaping spaces on the shelves as conspicuous as missing teeth.  A number of her cauldrons, stirrers and other tools had been taken away as well, but this dismantling of her lab was not an unmitigated misfortune.  The protective enchantments that surrounded the space remained extant, as did the spells that kept the lab cool, well ventilated, and well lit, despite being windowless.  But natural light was deleterious to many ingredients anyway.  With Callidus’s cauldron and personal stores of ingredients, the basement still made for a suitable lab in which to carry out his summer projects; nonetheless, it was no longer the same fantastical space that could be viewed with limitless possibilities, where dreams of easy fame and fortune might spring forth.

 

A more or less ordinary lab it might be, but Callidus still spent the majority of his summer there, though Caiside, eyes scintillating with wry merriment, had taken to calling him a basement bat, which stirred up a feeling of something familiar, something long forgotten, but in the face of trying to complete his assignments, as well as refining the vaporization process of potions, it was hardly important enough to dwell upon.  But he was reaching a point where his stomach was cramping from his willingness to forgo meals, and his mind felt sluggish, barely able to hold on to more than two concepts at once.  He ran his hands through his hair, aware that it was coating his fingers with a light layer of grease (and perhaps Caiside did have a point about that, not that he would ever admit it), and pushed away from the table, dragging his feet up the stairs.

 

From the angle of the shafts of light streaming into the house, he guessed that it was late afternoon.  Segnis had closed himself away in his music room, the charms on his door keeping out the dissonant notes of a work in progress.  As he stepped into the small dining room, he halted in his steps, taken aback by the sight of Madam Filodoxos at the table instead of in the sitting room.  He found himself blinking rapidly, as an image overlaid the one in front of him, disconcertingly vivid, of a woman with a pinched face, pallid skin, and dark listless hair.  But it was there that the similarities between Madam Filodoxos and the woman ended; where Madam Filodoxos was broad, the woman was brittle and waifish; where Madam Filodoxos was domineering, the woman was retiring, passive.  But both of them wore an air of defeat, and Callidus found his mouth forming two silent syllables: ‘mother?’ 

 

He blinked again, the image of Eileen Prince sharpening, but she looked far older than he remembered her, deep grooves of misery chiseled into her face by the ruthless sculptor that was life.

 

 “Callidus, dear, are you quite all right?”

 

Madam Filodoxos’ words effectively caused the image of his mother to vanish, and he wondered if perhaps the lab was less well-ventilated than he thought, or perhaps his sleep had been less restful than he assumed?  He scrubbed a hand over his face, the scent of bitter ingredients lingering despite his diligent use of cleaning charms on his fingers.

 

 “I - yes, I’m fine,” he dissembled.  He considered backing out of the room, but a demanding cramp in his gut insisted on food, and reluctantly, he settled on one of the chairs, perched on the edge as if he might need to fly off at any moment. 

 

She made small talk, which anyone with even a modicum of foresight would have seen as a doomed activity, considering that both parties knew what the other did all day.  He made an effort to be polite, his sense of obligation easily wrestling his agitation into submission. 

 

 “I suppose tomorrow, we'll be going to Diagon Alley,” she remarked, after asking about his summer homework (“Yes, it’s all finished,”) and his potions progress (“I'm still trying to determine the right ratio of fluids to a given volume of space.”)

 

Callidus had nearly forgotten about the trip to Diagon Alley.  He had made plans to meet up with Wystan, both of them finding that letters weren't entirely sufficient for the sorts of conversations they were having. 

 

 “You can, of course, depend upon us to provide what you need,” Madam Filodoxos continued, though the subconscious wringing of her hands belied the certainty of her tone.

 

 “That's much appreciated, but unnecessary,” Callidus replied. “I have my own funds, and would not be an unnecessary burden -”

 

 “No burden,” she interjected, half-heartedly.

 

 “Nonetheless, I would feel much better purchasing my own supplies.”

 

 “Are you quite certain?”

 

She did not put up very much of an argument, he thought, but he could not begrudge her that. “Yes.”

 

-o-

 

The August weather was bright and sunny, just shy of being oppressively hot (at least as far as British summers went), but most witches and wizards knew a plethora of spells to maintain their own personal comfort, cool in spite of their woolen robes.  Diagon Alley was a visual feast of colours, vibrant in a way that Hogwarts, for all its grandeur and magic, couldn't match.  While the students of Hogwarts wore plain black robes, the patrons of Diagon Alley wore myriad colours, in different cuts and styles, many in traditional full-bodied robes, while others in more dashing and fashionable robes that opened down the front, revealing tunics and trousers beneath.  Muggleborns and their muggle parents stood out, body language and dress suggesting tourists rather than natives.  Callidus was, of course, in robes, owning one set of casual robes and one set of formal, for all the affairs that Draco invited him to.

 

The cobblestone streets were filled with familiar faces of other Hogwarts students, looking incongruous when he was so accustomed to seeing them within the castle walls.  But it was short work to purchase all of his school supplies, and he gave only a passing thought to who their defense teacher might be, hoping that it wasn't possible for anyone to be more inept than Lockhart (but he had little faith in Dumbledore’s abilities to find a suitable replacement.  It was Dumbledore who hired Lockhart in the first place!)

 

While Caiside ventured off to browse magical plants, Segnis meandered into a music store, and Madam Filodoxos - well, Callidus was unable to guess where she went - he made himself comfortable in Florean Fortescue's Ice-cream Parlour, a small cone in hand (“What's the _ least _ sweet flavor that you have?”)  The cream and lemon rind flavoured ice cream was surprisingly refreshing. 

 

He had allowed himself to become engrossed in one of his new books ( _ The Roots of Magic: Our Mysterious Origins _ ), so when Wystan plunked himself down in the seat across from him, he was completely caught off guard, about to admonish the ‘stranger’ for taking an already claimed seat.  But there was no mistaking that tanned face.

 

Wystan’s grin was near blinding, mossy green eyes alight with undisguised delight, and it forcibly struck Callidus how Wystan was so much like Slughorn, whilst being nothing like Slughorn.   Both of them seemed to have a love of people, but Wystan had youth, charm, and handsomeness on his side, while Slughorn was fading into his own hedonistic indulgences, grasping at the ghosts of other people’s glories.  Wystan’s shoulders had filled out, his dark curly hair falling nearly down to his chin.  He carried himself with the same confidence as ever, but it was never a confidence that trampled, that stood cruelly on the backs of others.

 

 “You've changed!” Wystan remarked, and from anyone else, Callidus might have been tempted to roll his eyes at the inanity of the statement. 

 

 “As have you.”

 

Remarkably, Wystan’s grin widened. “And your voice!” Forthright eyes studied his face. “You know, your resemblance to Professor Snape really is uncanny.  I wish I knew what happened to our old Head of House.  I'd like to think that he would have supported FLAME’s efforts.  Are you quite sure that you're not directly related to him?”

 

 “I -” the deception was obstructed in his throat.  It was hard to lie to someone who had been so unfailingly helpful to him.  Callidus couldn't help feeling like he owed Wystan more than expedient words. “It's complicated.  It isn't anything I can openly share.”

 

Wystan’s dark eyebrows swept up towards his hair, head tilting. “You know, now the curiosity is just going to eat away at me.  You're quite the mystery, aren't you?” He lifted his hands placatingly. “But don't worry, I won't push -” he grinned, “too much.”

 

This time Callidus did roll his eyes.  After a moment, he said: “It's strange, I would have thought that you came here with Calypso.”

 

His expression turned impish.  “Oh, I did.  But she's trying on robes, and I, of course, had a most pressing appointment that prevented me from having to judge the merits of chartreuse versus seafoam versus lime.  What are you working on this summer?”

 

Callidus told him about his efforts to tweak his vapourized potions, in an effort to make them more useful in disparate circumstances. He had never told Wystan about his successes with magic sight.  In the end, he hadn't even told Harry or Draco (or even Longbottom).  It felt too precious, too powerful to impart upon the world.  It felt like something that was _ his _ , and he wanted to clutch it close, to keep its advantages hidden.

 

Eventually, the conversation moved on to other things. “We haven't done much more research on the manufacturing of the Orange Madness,” Wystan admitted. “It's not as pressing, since the disease has been cured.  But I confess, I was surprised by what the researchers at St Mungo’s had discovered.” Wystan leaned towards him, conspiratorially. “Apparently, it was a rather dark enchantment which conferred an immunity to the disease.  Of course, the ministry would never openly admit to such - we couldn't have mass panic on the street, now could we, nevermind that the disease itself was horrible enough.”  The words were spoken with surprising bitterness, but then, all Slytherins knew how biased wizarding society was towards darker forms of magic.

 

 “Aside from that, FLAME has its fingers on quite a number of other cauldrons.  But of course, the most interesting things are the ones we understand the least.”

 

 “Such as?”

 

 “I'm in contact with one group of researchers who have been studying the various protective enchantments across wizarding Britain.  This is nothing concrete, mind, so there's no reason to work yourself into a panic -”

 

Callidus scowled. “Do I look like the sort to work myself into a panic?”   
  


Wystan laughed, all traces of his earlier bitterness vanished. “You even speak like Professor Snape.  I thought so, even in first year, but it's even more pronounced now.” Upon seeing Callidus’s unamused glare, he grinned and continued: “Anyway, the researchers have been detecting fluctuations in the protective enchantments.”

 

 “And I'm to assume that this isn't normal?”

 

 “No.  The magic ought to be fixed, constant.  Of course, at this point, they’re not certain if it's merely mistakes in their measurements, or something more - serious.”

 

 “Serious, being -”

 

 “The worst case scenario would be a failure of the protective enchantments.  Of course, no one thinks this is likely, but -” Wystan shrugged helplessly. 

 

Callidus’s mind leapt ahead, tracing the possibilities. “We would no longer be able to maintain our secrecy - it could spell the end of wizarding society as we know it.”

 

 “To put it bluntly - but -” Wystan shook his head, elbow on the counter between them, while his cheek rested on his hand, “well, we'll see.  Anyway, there was actually something rather more personal I wanted to talk to you about.”

 

 “Oh?”

 

 “Well, I'm sure you're aware that with Euphemia and Gabriel graduating, ARMED no longer has a leader.”

 

 “And you needed suggestions?”  The idea of a club Head who wasn’t a bigot was immensely appealing.

 

But contrary to what Callidus expected, Wystan’s expression became uncertain, almost abashed. “Actually, I was wondering - well, would  _ you  _ consider leading ARMED?”

 

 “P-pardon?”

 

 “I just thought I would be a good fit.  You're as hungry for knowledge as a Ravenclaw, but you have Slytherin ambition.  I was also debating merging both factions of ARMED into one club, though I’m not certain whether anyone would be ready -.”

 

 “No.”

 

Wystan compressed his lips into a puppyish expression that even Harry would be proud of.  “No, they wouldn't be ready for one club, or no, you don't want to lead?”

 

 “After what happened with the Orange Madness, the degree of mistrust between Slytherin and the other Houses has only escalated.  It would be - unwise - to make this push.  As for leading ARMED - you  _ are _ aware that I am merely a soon-to-be third year, are you not?”

 

Wystan gave an insouciant shrug. “Yes, but I trust you.  And if anyone could do it, I think it would be you.  If you could ever channel your inner Professor Snape, their knees would be quivering.”

 

 “Inner Professor Snape?” What in Merlin’s name was an ‘inner Professor Snape?’

 

Wystan chortled, his curls bouncing and reflecting the light. “I just think you'd be a natural.  It's a shame you never met him.  If you did, you do know exactly what I meant.  But if you're not interested, I was thinking about Richter or Kapoor.” 

 

Callidus’s eyes widened in dismay. Richter and Kapoor were cut from the same cloth as Rowle, all of them too ready to bask in their own sense of superiority. “Not Richter or Kapoor!  Who else?”

 

Wystan gave him a list of names, but they were either pureblood bigots, or imbecilic incompetents.  And what of Harry?  Of course, Callidus had also suffered at the hands of Rowle, but he had been distracted by other matters, and hadn’t been as deeply affect as Harry had been.  He didn’t want for either of them to suffer through another terrible leader, left to feel as though they didn’t belong, either in ARMED or Slytherin.  He was starting to think that there might not be a choice.

 

 “I'll do it,” Callidus eventually decided, pale and vaguely nauseated after hearing the list of candidates. 

 

 “You will?  Great!” Something about Wystan’s unsurprised expression was giving him a slithering suspicion of just having been manipulated.  And yet, having made the decision, he couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation as possibilities unfurled before him.  ARMED might be a responsibility, but it was also an opportunity.  It could strengthen his connections, give him a sense of power that he didn't have before.  It could propel him towards the future he wanted, whispers of acclaim growing ever louder.

 

It wasn't until Wystan was gone, that the magnitude of Callidus’s decision finally slammed into him. ‘What have I just gotten myself into?’ he thought as a swarm of doubts pounced upon him, feasting on the shreds of his earlier confidence. ‘Merlin, what have I just done?’

 

-o-

 

It was the day before his departure for Hogwarts, and Draco was called into his father’s study for what appeared to be a now annual wizard-to-wizard discussion.  When Draco had been eleven, bursting with dreams (certainties) about all his imminent grand accomplishments, being called into his father’s study had swelled his chest with pride, had made him feel terribly grown up and mature.  His father had looked over him with his discerning pale eyes, expression so different from his mother’s ever-forgiving blue gaze.  In those days, Draco had never even recognized the notion of failure.  Failure, true failure, was as foreign to him as breathing air was to a fish.

 

If only he could return to those green days of his youth (he did not stop to think how thirteen was still incredibly young.  With his struggles, he felt each one of his years).  Trying to beat off his burgeoning trepidation, he stood before the glossy study doors, opened for him by one of the house elves, and entered the wood-panelled room filled with bookshelves.  He tilted his chin up in a passable semblance of haughtiness, feeling every sweep of his father’s eyes, wondering if those dratted house elves had failed to remove a speck of dusk from his robes.  Had his father’s judgements always been so weighty, so rigid?  And  _ was  _ there a speck of dust on his robes?  The idea was ghastly enough that it caused the blood to leave his face.

 

 “Sit down, Draco.” An expectant pause whilst he obeyed.  And then: “You will be leaving for Hogwarts tomorrow.” A stranger might find his father’s gaze inscrutable, but Draco knew better.  The hard line of his jaw, the cold glitter of his eye spoke of expectations.  The relaxed but firm posture, the way his arms rested upon his desk, one hand over the other, spoke of Malfoy pride, of the image of power that needed to be upheld, of aristocratic superiority.  Everything about his father announced: ‘This is what you must be, Draco.’ It was curious that for the first eleven years of his life, it was what Draco thought he already was (or well on his way to becoming).

 

The speech to come was fast becoming a familiar one, peppered with words such as ‘Noble,’ ‘Ancient,’ and ‘Superior.’  The first time he had heard this speech, Draco remembered leaning forward, rapt and breathless, already feeling the crown of glory being placed, ever-so-gravely and ever-so-deservedly, upon his head.  But hearing this lecture for the third time, he detected a message heretofore unspoken.  He understood what he was (Noble, Ancient, Malfoy), but he was also starting to hear what he had yet to be (Superior, Esteemed, Important, Powerful, Malfoy).  At eleven, he had heard these words, and felt his longing mingled with a lovely sense of inevitability, coating his tongue with its sweetness, it was so close.  At thirteen, he heard these words, and the longing had only grown, bloating and uncomfortable, a pressure that reminded him of not-good-enoughs and not-quite-there-yet (he didn’t want to think ‘failure,’ a term too final to be borne).

 

 “- intolerable to think that you have been academically bested by a mudblood,  _ again  _ -”

 

And Callidus, Draco mentally added, though he did not say so out loud.  He knew the true crime was in failing to display his supremacy over Granger, someone who, by all rights, should have been beneath him (‘but she’s not, is she?  She isn’t even that bad of a person, once you get used to her dreadful lack of propriety’).

 

 “- and to have chosen only two electives?  In my third year of Hogwarts, I chose four of the five electives and received Outstandings in all of them.  More than Outstandings, I was at the very top of nearly all my classes.  Furthermore -”

 

Draco wasn’t even  _ interested _ in all the electives.  His father himself had mentioned how worthless Divinations was, and of course, he wouldn’t have taken Muggle Studies.  Perhaps his father had wanted him to take Ancient Runes?  But with three extra courses, how would he have time for  _ anything _ ?  He wasn’t his father!  He stilled, seized by the idea.  No, he wasn’t his father.  He wasn’t his father at all.  But did he want to be?

 

 “- but at least Slytherin won the Quidditch cup, and I expect you shall do the same this year.  When I played, I always led the team into victory -”

 

For as long as Draco could remember, his father was the man he admired most.  He personified every quality that he spoke of: superiority, importance, esteem, grace, quality, purity, power, and so many more.  He had vivid recollections of thinking of how much better his father was than Crabbe’s and Goyle’s dull-eyed, lumbering parents.

 

 “- made prefect in my fifth year, and then Head Boy in my seventh.  I was looked up to by the entire school.  The Slytherins rallied around me.  The Gryffindors respected and feared me in equal measure.  On top of a full course load, I was captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team -”

 

But Draco had seen a little more of the world now (even if that world was confined largely to the walls of Hogwarts).  And he had seen a little more of himself, and who he was.  And what if he didn’t even have a choice?  What if he couldn’t even  _ be _ like his father?  Already his first and second years were seen as unacceptable.  To be less than first at anything and everything was to have already failed (and oh, how he hated to think that word!)

 

 “- should be easy for you to accomplish all this.  It’s in your blood.  It’s your birthright -”

 

But it wasn’t easy!  It wasn’t easy at all!  If it was in his blood, if it had been his birthright, then shouldn’t it already be in his grasp?  Shouldn’t he have sailed through his classes with a smooth and untroubled ease?  It didn’t make sense!

 

 “- I expect changes this year, Draco.  The first two have been unacceptable, but this year, you  _ will _ be a credit to the Malfoy name, do you understand?”

 

 “Yes, father.”

 

 “And the other things I have mentioned.  You will remember that certain things are not to be spoken of to others, even those you deem as brothers.”

 

 “Yes, father.”

 

His father nodded, dismissing him.  His feet felt as if they were encased in lead as he left his father’s study, and it was an effort to maintain his grace.  It wasn't until he was at the end of the corridor that he realized that his nails had dug deeply enough into his palms so as to leave red crescent-shaped marks.  It would be so much easier if Harry and Callidus were here as his brothers.  His father had mentioned that the custody case would be tried sometime near Yule, but Draco felt as if it couldn't come soon enough.  Perhaps, with brothers, the burden of these expectations would not be so crushing, so - so (impossible?) challenging.  Perhaps, with brothers, he could breathe easier, and slip into being merely Draco, instead of Draco Malfoy.  

 

Pleasant as these thoughts were, he knew he could not avoid his destiny.  He should not deceive himself.  He was a Malfoy.  It would be up to him to uphold the family name, to bear the mantle of duty, responsibility and greatness.  When he had been younger, he had thought of the Malfoy name as a pair of wings, allowing him to soar above the rest.  But as he trudged along the corridor back to his room, he felt fettered by the name, held down by generation after generation of expectations, bound by inescapable ghosts of the past, all watching him, all measuring him for his worthiness.  Would he make them proud?  It terrified him to identify the feeling that he felt:  doubt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot going on, and some of the stuff mentioned in this chapter will be relevant in later years... though it'll come up again, so I don't expect any anyone to memorize details


	3. Chapter 3

“... _ my upbringing was simple and happy, though my family name wasn’t well-known, being pureblood for only a few short generations.  I had doting parents and affectionate siblings.  Nothing in the way I was raised could have prepared me for what was to come… _ ”

 

Callidus and Caiside parted on the Hogwarts Express to find their own friends.  As much as they fell into an easy combination of camaraderie-and-bickering over the summer, the division between their Houses made them both more circumspect during the school year.  Nonetheless, he had still brewed a potion for her garden of terror (amazingly, he found a potion that could  _ increase _ the aggressiveness of dangerous plants), and Caiside gave him a fresh bag of seed pods.  He hoped that he wouldn't need them this year. 

 

The pair of them had been dropped off early, so after searching the train and catching no sight of his friends, he picked an empty compartment, and made himself comfortable with his course books stacked beside him for something to read.  His grades last year had been a disappointment.  Of course, he received a swath of Outstandings (and one Exceeds Expectations), but it had been Hermione who had been the top student in the majority of their classes. Uncharitably, he thought that if Hermione had been dealing with fifth year bullies and a brotherhood (sisterhood?) ritual gone awry, she wouldn't have done half as well. 

 

But this year, things would be different.  And even if he was busy leading ARMED, he was sure that it would only broaden his knowledge, offering an advantage that Hermione could only dream of. As he thought of leading ARMED, apprehension scurried over his skin, dragging his lips downwards.  For all that Wystan might have trusted him, Callidus had his doubts about being thrust into leadership.  Yes, he wanted power and influence, but those two words had always been attached to ‘someday.’  Someday when he was older.  Someday when he was ready.  Once again, he considered writing to Wystan to beg off, and yet, there was no way he would let ARMED be run by a Rowle-duplicate.

 

He barely noticed as the train platform became ever more crowded, insulated by the isolation of the train compartment. And rather than having to endure the clatter of the door as it slid open and closed, he left it open, unperturbed by the tuneless music of distant voices.  So by the time Harry and Draco entered the compartment, he was wearing a dark scowl, the outside world forgotten as he ruminated over the weight of his new responsibilities, as well as the crinkled letter in his pocket.  But he hadn’t wanted to think of the letter after he read it this morning, and he didn’t want to dwell on it now.  His friends’ bright salutations sounded like little more than background noise.

 

But as Harry and Draco plunked down in the seat across from him, he started, the visual change far more jarring than any auditory ones.  And something strange was happening, yet again.  As he peered at Harry's face, he felt as if he was seeing two things at once, two Harrys.  Only, one Harry had shamrock-green eyes filled with curiosity and concern, and the other Harry had hazel eyes, and a supercilious curl to his lips.  Out of nowhere, the name ‘James’ crossed his mind, though why he should suddenly think of Harry’s middle name, he didn't know.  His frown deepened, and he felt a bladed defensiveness form a shell around him, but Harry was leaning forward, saying: “Cal?  Are you okay?” The double image vanished soon after.

 

 “Harry?”

 

 “Who else would he be?” Draco asked, looking unimpressed in contrast to Harry’s worry. “Let me guess: stayed up all night working on potions?”

 

Callidus gave Harry another fleeting glance, but the saw only the Harry he knew, the Harry that was his friend, so he gave a nonchalant shrug. “Something like that,” he equivocated. “How was the rest of your summers?”

 

A flash of white teeth lit Harry’s face. “It was awesome!” And somehow, despite the long letters he had written, despite his visits over the holidays, Harry and yet more to say about Sirius Black, not even remarking as the train finally moved on its way to Hogwarts.  Callidus might not have met the man, but through Harry, he felt like Sirius was no stranger. For a brief moment, he felt a tug at his memory, a faint impression of something unpleasant associated with Sirius Black, but then, he recalled that the man had been falsely accused of mass murder, so no wonder Callidus would attach negative feelings to the name.  What happened hadn't been Sirius’s fault, and for Harry’s sake, Callidus would try to think the best of the man, even if he was sick of listening to Sirius’s manifold virtue's being enumerated. 

 

When Harry paused for breath, Callidus rapidly inserted: “Was your summer passable as well, Draco?”

 

Draco, whose grey eyes had been glazed over from Harry's monologue, blinked rapidly before scowling and crossing his arms. “It could’ve been better.”

 

Not even Harry could have been unaware of the sting in Draco's voice. “I thought you had a good summer.  Your letters -”

 

 “I don’t want to talk about it.  What about you, Callidus?  Manage to ever leave your lab at all?”

 

Callidus forced his lips into a smirk, unruffled by Draco’s barb, though the tension between Draco and Harry stirred more than a flutter within him. “You know me.  Although there was something I meant to share -”

 

 “Oh yeah!” Harry said, angling towards him yet again like a curious bird, thoughts of Draco quickly quelled. “You mentioned you had news.  So?” 

 

 “I met up with Wystan - Wystan Overcliff,” (he clarified, more for Draco’s sake than Harry’s), “at Diagon Alley.”

 

 “Oh!  How is he?”

 

Callidus pursed his lips.  He hadn't mentioned Wystan in order to discuss the other boy’s personal life, but Wystan have been well-liked by the majority of his lowerclassmen, so Callidus rattled off what he could remember. “You recall that ARMED was Wystan’s idea?”

 

 “Yeah?”

 

 “And of course, with Rowle graduating, ARMED needs a new leader -”

 

Draco’s expression turned stormy upon hearing Rowle’s name, but he didn't comment, forcing his gaze to follow the crests and falls of the hills outside the window, under heavy grey clouds.

 

 “He told you who the leader will be?” Harry asked. “Not one of Rowle’s friends, is it?” 

 

 “No, certainly not.  Actually, he asked - me.” Once the words left his mouth, both Harry and Draco were gawking at him, silenced as their minds worked to process the news.

 

Harry recovered first. “You?  That's amazing!”

 

 “You’re not really - you - but you’re only a third year!” Draco sputtered. 

 

 “Believe me, I’m quite aware of that,” Callidus drawled. “Actually, I'm not entirely convinced I can do it on my own -” (Draco snorted), “so I thought I'd ask both of you to act as - co-leaders, of sorts.” 

 

Harry’s eyes rounded and he peered over at Draco.  “I’m not really sure -”

 

 “Yes,” Draco agreed. “I’ll help lead.  This is Slytherin we’re talking about.  Without my influence, you wouldn’t have a hope of gaining any respect.”

 

 “Don’t you think that’s a bit harsh -”

 

 “Draco’s right, Harry. I might be respected for my abilities with Potions, but most Slytherins will resist yielding to me as a matter of pride. To be quite honest, I mostly agreed to take on this role so that ARMED wouldn't become too politicized.” 

 

 “Who cares if ARMED is politicized?” Draco parried. “Considering that ARMED condones Old Magic and Dark Magic, you’d expect -”

 

 “I don’t think we should continue teaching Dark Magic,” Harry interjected.

 

This time, it was Callidus and Draco who are left goggling at Harry. “But dark magic is integral -”

 

 “Have you already forgotten what happened last term?” Harry cut in sharply. “I know that you didn't intend to give me a pendant enchanted with dark magic, but the fact is, it still happened.” Draco paled at the words. “It changed who I was -”

 

 “Influenced,” Callidus corrected.

 

 “- influenced who I was, and it wasn't a weak influence either.  And when I think about some of the things I did, it makes me feel sick.  I wouldn't have done those things if - if, you know -” Harry exhaled heavily (though Callidus disagreed with Harry’s assessment.  Influence was only influence, and Harry still had his free will). “Anyway, I just think it's a bad idea to teach Dark Magic.  And besides, Sirius would agree. He knows all about dark magic because of his family, and he says that it ruined the lot of them.” 

 

Callidus and Draco exchanged a glance. “I suppose we can discuss such details later,” Callidus hedged.  He was personally keen on Dark Magic, but there with something about Harry’s words that hinted at vulnerability, and Callidus wanted to protect his friend.  But Harry’s uncertainty was covered by a mutinous look, and fortunately, Harry allowed the matter to be brushed aside.

 

 “We'll of course charge a membership fee and require a book loan again,” Draco decided. 

 

Callidus frowned had he recalled the difficulties that he and Harry had faced, having to pay the fee and find appropriate grimoires to loan. Part of the reason that Callidus had agreed to lead ARMED was because he hadn't appreciated the exclusionary nature of the club last term.  And while he had told Wystan that Hogwarts was unready to merge the two factions of the club into one, he still agreed with the ideal.  Magic - all forms of magic, should be available to all students.  It was the choice which mattered.  He knew that it was Wystan’s influence in first year which led him to this perspective, but it felt  _ right _ . 

 

 “No.”

 

Draco knit his brows.  “What do you mean, no?”

 

 “It should be one or the other.  A book or a fee, depending on our member’s needs.”

 

 “You’re not serious?”  After a stretch, Draco groaned. “You are.  How is ARMED supposed to have any resources if you don’t require both a fee and a book?”

 

 “I understand the need for books, but why do we need the galleons?”

 

Draco looked at him as if all his wits had fled out the train window. “Did all your time in the lab wither your vaunted intellect this summer?  You  _ do _ realize that this world of ours runs on gold?”

 

 “I’m quite aware of the importance of funding -”

 

 “Then I’m sure you don’t need  _ my _ help coming to the proper conclusion.”

 

 “The dueling club never requested any fees.”

 

Draco sneered. “Well, ARMED isn’t the duelling club, is it?”

 

Callidus sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “We’ll discuss this later as well.” He had thought that his friends’ help would make his role easier, not more difficult. “I was thinking -” he paused, sliding away from Draco’s scowling face to look at Harry, “about using the secret chamber for club meetings.” 

 

 “But the chamber is  _ our  _ space!” Draco burst out. “It's our secret.”

 

 “Everything about that space suggests that it was created by Salazar Slytherin, even if the library has been surprisingly deficient in information,” Callidus argued. “It would lend credibility to our leadership.”

 

Draco crossed his arms. “Well, I can't imagine being able to convince the rest of our house to enter the chamber through the girls’ bathroom.”

 

 “Actually -” Harry's expression with sheepish, “I forgot to mention, but over the summer, I did a bit more exploring, and I found an alternate entryway and exit through the dungeons.  S’in a part of the dungeons that looks like, well, actual dungeons.”

 

 “You don't mean that you would really be willing to let the others into our space,” Draco said, and if it had been anyone else, it would have almost sounded like pleading.

 

Harry answered with an insouciant shrug. “I reckon s’more than big enough for the three of us.  I'm fine with it.” 

 

Draco thrust out his lower lip, daggers in his eyes. “Fine.” 

 

Callidus managed to pull up his lip in a veneer of a smile.  Asking for the support of his friends had not gone as he had expected, but it had offered to distraction at least, from the letter in his pocket. Because the last thing he wanted to think about was the message he had received this morning, addressed to him, but offering no name in reply.  When he considered the message, he couldn't help the shiver of dread, and the hairs that would raise on the back of his neck.  The message was simple, and yet profoundly threatening.  The message which had read: ‘ _ I know who you are, Severus Snape _ .’

 

-o-

 

If Draco had been the sort of person who considered what it meant to be a good friend, he might have sat and brooded upon the matter as the cadence of Harry’s voice lilted across his ears.  Draco might consider the advantages he could gain from friendships, but he did not often muse upon what he might offer to others.  For most of his life, it had been enough to be a Malfoy.  Naturally, others would seek out the company of a Malfoy.

 

So, despite the patent happiness in Harry’s voice as he blathered about Sirius Black, Draco didn’t feel happy for him, even if, as a friend, he ought to.  Under any other circumstances, he might have felt a stirring of curiosity about Sirius.  Sirius was, after all, a relative of sorts, a cousin to his mother.  But many purebloods were interbred enough that a blood tie was no reason for Draco to feel any bond towards Sirius.  And worse, Sirius was trying to take Harry away - Harry, who was his own brother.  Wouldn’t a brother have a stronger claim than a godfather?  Draco certainly thought so.

 

Why did Harry have to be so pleased about Sirius anyway?  What was so special about Sirius?  So, Sirius liked Quidditch.  So did Draco, and half the school. So, Sirius was of the Noble and Ancient House of Black.  So was Draco’s mother, and Harry was hardly fawning over her.  So, Sirius was accused of being a mass murderer.  Admittedly, that did make a person rather interesting.  Draco didn't know very many mass murders.  And really, hadn’t it only been muggles who had been murdered?  He had a niggling suspicion that his father had killed one or two muggles back in the war.  What would Draco have to do to convince Harry that he was the better choice? Because as much as he believed that his father could win the custody battle, there was a part of him that didn't want to have to fight Harry about this.

 

He was distracted by incredulity when Callidus mentioned his appointment as leader to ARMED.  Callidus?  Really?  Draco didn’t have a particularly intimate relationship with Wystan Overcliff, or any of the Overcliff’s for that matter, despite the respectability of the family, but he was convinced the man must be completely daft to suffer such a lapse in judgement.  Callidus was clever, yes, and ambitious as well (more so than Harry), but a leader?  Malfoys led.  Prince’s - well, it remained to be seen.  At least Callidus had the good sense to share leadership.

 

“Did Draco tell you about our course books for Care of Magical Creatures?” he heard Harry say, alert to the sound of his own name.  His eyes flew away from the rolling landscape outside the compartment window to Harry’s face.

 

Callidus lazily arched an eyebrow. “I don't believe so.” Unlike Draco and Harry, Callidus hadn’t chosen Care of Magical Creatures as a third year subject.

 

 “Merlin,” Draco broke in, “that book is a menace!  It destroyed over half my quills and nearly chewed up my school robes!  My mother had to cast a binding charm on it.  It’s roped up in my trunks.”

 

Harry chuckled, ignoring Draco’s vexation. “Hagrid gave me my copy.  I used a belt to keep it from biting.”

 

 “Biting?” Callidus asked. 

 

 “Yeah!  Thank Merlin it doesn’t have teeth.   _ The Monster Book of Monsters _ , I think it was called.  Gave me some nasty paper cuts though,” Harry said, his grin belying his words.  “I’m not sure how we’re s’posed to even read it.  Though if we can’t read our book, d’you reckon that means we won’t get any homework?”

 

Draco snorted, though the idea was a pleasing one. 

 

 “Kettleburn teaches that one, doesn’t he?” Callidus asked. “The one without half his limbs?”

 

After Harry shook his head uncertainly, Draco said: “Yes.  Heard it was an easy class, though I suppose as long as we end up graduating with our limbs intact -”

 

Callidus furrowed his brows.  “Why would you sign up for a subject if you were worried about your limbs?”

 

Draco lifted a shoulder, feigning indifference. “Figured we might spend some classes with Norberta.” Upon seeing their knowing glances, he exclaimed: “What?  Dragons are powerful and noble creatures, worthy of study.”

 

Harry grinned. “Of course they are.”

 

 “Don’t patronize me,” Draco bit out, though his words lacked heat.

 

Guileless green eyes returned his gaze.  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

The food cart came and went, and after they sated themselves on (inferior quality) treats, Draco decided to seize reins of the conversation lest it turn back to another extended soliloquy about Sirius Black.

 

 “Did either of you hear about Weasley’s rat?”  Yes, it was tangentially related to Sirius Black, but it wasn’t directly about Sirius Black, and besides, the information was delightfully juicy, the sort of thing that would have made Pansy’s eyes glow with malicious glee.

 

 “Is this related to Peter Pettigrew?” Harry asked, nose scrunched. “I’ve stopped reading the news, but Sirius mentioned -”

 

Draco brushed off the remark with a blithe sweep of his hands. “Yes, yes, we’ve heard all about Sirius.  And yes, it’s related to Pettigrew.”

 

 “What about Pettigrew?” Callidus’s low voice interposed. “I don’t recall reading any articles regarding his capture.”

 

 “No, but -” Draco leaned back, lacing his fingers together casually, “you recall that Pettigrew was an unregistered animagus?  A rat?” His expression was sly, and his ego purred at his friends’ rapt faces as they leaned towards him. “Anyway, there’s a rumour going around that Weasel’s familiar might’ve been Pettigrew.  Remember that ugly old rat he used to carry around?”

 

 “Not really?” Harry said.

 

Draco rolled his eyes, even though he too had no distinct memories of Ronald Weasley’s familiar. “Well, apparently, the Weasley’s found a mysterious rat one day, and didn’t question the fact that normal rats only live two to three years - perhaps five with extended magical care.  And being a familiar, the rat ate at their table, and played with the children and -”

 

 “And?”

 

Draco revealed a set of pearly teeth.  “And slept in their bed.”

 

Harry, and even Callidus (who had a greater mastery of impassivity), wore matched expressions of revulsion, and if it wasn’t entirely uncouth, Draco would have crowed in amusement.  Instead, he smirked.  “Disgusting, isn’t it?”

 

 “Yes!” Harry exclaimed, face tinted green.  “That’s - that’s awful!  Uugh - thinking of it makes me sick.”

 

 “And how is Weasley taking this?” Callidus asked.

 

 “How should I know?  Though when I saw him on the platform, he kept his eyes on the floor the entire time.  Exactly where a Weasley should look.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes. “I know your family has been feuding with his for generations, but Weasley has never really  _ done _ anything to you.”

 

 “He exists, doesn’t he?” Draco parried.

 

 “Such a terrible crime,” Harry replied, tone saturated in irony. After sharing a smile, the three of them fell into an easy silence, Callidus engrossed in his books, Harry coddling Hedwig, and Draco staring out the window, past the rivulets of water from the now pouring rain.

 

It was Callidus, setting down the Transfigurations course book and picking up the one on Defense, who finally spoke. “If our current trend of Defense professors continues, I imagine we’ll be worse off after graduating then before we began.”

 

Draco let out an amused sound, signaling his agreement.  He might have felt the smallest doubt cracking the pedestal that he had placed his father upon, but his father was right about one thing: Dumbledore was a terrible Headmaster.

 

 “I've met our Defense professor,” Harry remarked.

 

Draco turned to him, surprised. “You have?” 

 

Harry nodded eagerly. “Yeah.  He and Sirius are old friends from Hogwarts.  They, erm, reconnected once Sirius was freed.” Harry’s expression then became alarmingly wistful.

 

Draco did his best to wipe the grimace from his face.  It seemed like Sirius was all he ever heard about, and he decided then and there that already, he didn't like their new Defense professor.  No, he didn’t like him at all.

 

-o-

 

Hermione was sitting in a train compartment with Caiside and Ginny, when the door clanked open, and the three of them were greeted by the sight of Neville Longbottom, looking perplexingly lost (despite being the one to open their door).

 

 “Erm -” the round-faced boy begin, reaching towards his bulging pocket where Trevor, his toad, hid, much like a child might reach for a security blanket.  But Trevor did not seem to offer very much comfort, because two spots of red appeared Neville's face. “I can't find anywhere else to sit.”

 

 “Oh.  You’re quite welcome to sit with us,” Hermione offered, just as Ginny exclaimed: “Come!  Sit here!” Caiside neither protested nor welcomed, but shrugged her assent.

 

 “Thanks!” Neville said, tension melting so fast that the three girls could nearly feel it rolling off him.  He awkwardly hoisted his trunk into the compartment (with some help from Ginny who was nearest to the door), before making himself comfortable next to Caiside, giving her a smile that was simultaneously so faltering and hopeful that she couldn’t help smiling back.

 

 “So, how was your summer, Neville?” Hermione asked.

 

 “Tiring,” Neville confessed. “After I fell sick, Gran didn’t want me to do anything strenuous.  I wasn’t allowed to go into our greenhouse except to sit and look at plants!  And I had to spend the rest of the time catching up on what I missed while I was in that stasis.”

 

The three of them (even Caiside), were sympathetic, though each for different reasons.  Hermione, of course, thought it was perfectly reasonable to spend the summer working on school work.  It wouldn’t have done, to forget everything during the two months when they were out of classes.  After asking them about their own holidays, Neville said: “Have any of you seen Prince yet?  Everyone has been talking about the custody battle with the Malfoys.” 

 

Hermione couldn't help feeling a pang at this new topic. She had thought that Callidus was one of her close friends, and yet, she had heard very little from him over the summer.  She knew that he had been upset that she and her friends had gone behind his back to speak to Professor Dumbledore, but hadn't he realized that friends watch out for one another? 

 

But her feelings were more than just the typical worry of friendship.  In truth, Callidus fascinated her.  Caiside and Ginny seemed to sense this, and teased her about it, but she had never openly admitted it.  She admired his intelligence, even if it did spark a sense of competitive rivalry.  Their academic discussions made her feel invigourated in a way that little else did, stretching her perspectives, and forcing her to consider new angles.  Though she might have disclaimed any deeper feelings towards him to Caiside and Ginny, it was harder to lie to herself.  She wanted their friendship to have more depth.  Unfortunately, Callidus remained oblivious (or worse, indifferent).  She truly, truly hoped it wasn't indifference.

 

 “- lived with him all summer, and he barely told me anything,” she heard Caiside say. “Except that he didn’t want to live with the Malfoys.” 

 

Neville visibly shuddered. “I wouldn't want to either.  I've met them at some of the pureblood functions that Gran takes me to, and when everyone still thought that I was a squib, the Malfoys would look at me like I was dirt.  Worse than dirt!  At least dirt is important for growing things.” 

 

 “The Malfoys are horrid,” Ginny agreed. “They think that they're better than everyone else just because they have more galleons in their vaults.  You're lucky you haven't had to deal with them growing up, ‘Moine.” 

 

Hermione gave her a weak smile.  it was true that being a muggleborn had partitioned her from wizarding politics and feuds, but it was also a reminder that she wasn't fully part of this world, and didn’t entirely belong. But she wasn't a Gryffindor for nothing, and this wasn't first year where she had been essentially alone. “The wizarding world changes a lot more slowly than the muggle one.” Her brown eyes took on a hard glint.  “If history teaches anything, it's that those who can't change will be left behind.” Unfortunately, history also taught that power, once entrenched, was difficult to supplant. 

 

 “That and the purebloods are letting themselves get so inbred that they'll probably breed themselves out,” Caiside added wryly. 

 

 “Tell that to my parents,” Ginny muttered.

 

As her friends prattled, Hermione felt some of her tension ease.  Yes, it would be nice if her Slytherin friends (especially Callidus) cared about her the same way she cared for them, but Caiside and Ginny were the best sorts of friends she could wish for, and Neville, as much as he was timid and not very academically inclined (outside of Herbology), was a likeable fellow as well.  Besides, hadn’t her own mother said that boys weren’t known for their sensitivity?  It certainly appeared to be true enough.

 

Neville’s voice cut into her thoughts.  “By the way, Ginny, I’m sorry to hear about - you know -” 

 

Ginny’s eyes, a lighter brown shade than her own, narrowed ominously. “I know what?”

 

Neville gestured nervously.  “Well, erm - I heard about, erm - the rat, and all that - everyone’s talking about -”

 

 “It was never confirmed.”

 

Hermione looked between Ginny and Neville, puzzled by the ambiguous exchange of words.

 

Neville’s face was splotched pink now.  “Oh, I know. But, I just - well - everyone thinks -”

 

 “What’s going on?” Hermione asked.

 

Ginny’s lips were pressed tight, and her arms were crossed, while Neville’s pink had deepened to a red.  It was Caiside who answered: “There’s a rumour going round that Ron’s familiar was Peter Pettigrew.”

 

 “Peter Pettigrew - as if in the one who framed Sirius Black for all those murders?”

 

 “That’s the one,” Caiside replied.

 

“Ron might be an annoying git but, he doesn't deserve to be laughed at or gawked at like some - some freak!” Ginny erupted, eyes flashing.

 

 “People are laughing at him?” Hermione exclaimed, aghast.

 

 “Everyone thinks it’s just some big joke, or they think he should have  _ known _ .  How were any of us to know?”

 

 “That’s awful.” Hermione brought to mind the image of the red-haired boy, freckled, blue-eyed and gangly.  The pair of them had never been close - especially after Ron had made fun of her in first year for being a know-it-all.  But first year had been a difficult and lonely year, and if not for the need to prove her worth, if not for her hunger for knowledge, it could have very well crushed her spirit.  But since then, Ron and his friends had all but left her alone, or even nodded at her respectfully, realizing her academic achievement translated to House points in their classes.  She couldn’t say that she liked Ron, but compassion welled up within her, and she couldn’t bear the idea of him being alienated and alone.

 

 “I - I’ll go speak to him,” Hermione determined.

 

 “What?” The other three looked at her in open-mouthed surprise.

 

 “I can’t just -” she balled her hands in frustration, “I just want to make sure he’s all right.”

 

 “Oh.” Ginny slumped back into her seat. “All right.”

 

 “Are you coming?”

 

 “Hm?  He’s my brother.  I was there all summer, in case it slipped your mind, and much as I love him, well, it’s Ron.”

 

 “I don’t really know him well enough -” Caiside admitted. “And I saw them over the summer too.” 

 

 “I don’t think he’d want to see me,” Neville said, gaze on the floor.

 

 “Fine.  I’ll go by myself.”  Hermione stood and pushed open the compartment door, Ginny calling out: “To your right.  Four or five compartments down.  I think.”

 

By the time Hermione was on her feet, it had already occurred to her that she would be knocking on a compartment filled with the third year Gryffindor boys (less Neville).  Speaking to Ron alone would be one thing, but speaking to the lot of them?  She should have given her actions more thought, before leaping into them. 

 

But as she peered out into the long corridor of the train, she saw a familiar head of red hair, seated alone on the floor, knees drawn up with forearms resting on them.  She stepped closer, her movements wary. “Ron?”

 

The boy looked up at her, and it turned out her guess was correct. “What d’you want?” His voice sounded more weary than it did belligerent, and the sight of him looking so alone tugged at her heart. “Whatever you have to say, I've probably heard it all before.”

 

 “I -” what  _ did _ she have to say?  She hadn’t even heard about Ron’s rat until just now, and had acted on impulse. “I heard about your familiar.  I’m sorry.  And I - well, if you need someone to talk to -”

 

Scepticism was written clear across his face. “Why would I talk t’you?  So you n’everyone can have more to laugh about behind my back?”

 

 “I would never!”

 

He blinked, taken aback, before looking away. “I s’pose you aren’t the sort - n’Ginny knows all there is to know, anyway.”

 

After a pause, Hermione asked: “Can I sit?”

 

Ron looked back up at her, startled that she hadn’t left. “Can’t stop you, can I.”

 

Uncertain of her welcome, she slid down to lean against the wall across from him.  Her eyes roved across him, but he kept his head down, either unaware of, or ignoring her scrutiny. “Do you miss him?  Your rat?”

 

Coppery eyebrows drew together as he once again looked at her with disbelief. “What kind of question is that?  He - he -”

 

 “He was your familiar.  And no one knows for sure that he’s -”

 

Ron’s face reddened. “He never did much.  Slept a lot, the lazy bugger.” He seemed to be lost in thought, and Hermione waited as he slowly marshalled them. “Scabbers was with our family for a long time.  He used t’belong to Percy.” (Percy was one of Ginny’s and Ron’s many older brothers). “I wouldn’t say that I miss him.  S’just weird that he’s gone, is all.”

 

 “Hmm.  I think I understand.”

 

 “You do?”

 

 “Well, a long time ago, there was a stray cat in our neighbourhood, and my parents used to feed him.  He was a mean-tempered cat - he would hiss and scratch if anyone tried to go near him.  But we got used to seeing him.  And then, one day, he just disappeared. And even though he hadn't been friendly, and never let us touch him, it felt - empty, when he was gone.”

 

Ron slowly nodded. “Yeah.  S’like that.  If he was -” (his voice lowered to a hush), “Petter Pettigrew, I wouldn’t want him back.  But it feels like something’s missing. S’strange.”

 

Hermione gave him a sympathetic smile. “Not strange at all.  It’s perfectly understandable.”

 

After a long moment, Ron said: “Erm - well, thanks for -” he gesture with his hands, “everything.  Not laughing about it, or acting like I should’ve known all along.”

 

 “I wouldn’t -”

 

 “You didn’t have to, is my point.  Anyway, I should get back -” he looked towards his compartment door.  Hermione nodded, and they both pushed themselves up onto their feet.

 

 “If you ever need to speak about anything else,” Hermione began.

 

Ron’s face coloured, clashing with his hair. “Yeah.  Thanks.” 

 

And though he didn’t look her in the eye, Hermione couldn’t help but feel better about the year ahead.  Callidus might not have appreciated her help, but at least she had been able to do some good for someone else.  And while the Slytherin had been distant at the end of last term, surely his feelings would have softened over the summer.  With renewed optimism, Hermione returned to her compartment, a small smile on her lips. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of Dumbledore's lines and Hagrid's lines are from canon. There's also a Homestuck reference.

“... _ my family never took a side in the war, but after learning about electricity in Muggle Studies, I confess that I developed a fascination with both muggles and muggleborns.  One would think that muggles would wither away without magic, and it amazed me to see the way that they flourished.  I was convinced that the division between our two societies hindered more than it helped… _ ”

 

Callidus may have been accustomed to the sight of the Great Hall, with its enchanted ceiling bedecked in stars, and the innumerable candles floating above them, and yet, returning to this Hall after two months of absence caused a feeling of warmth to unspool within him, radiating from his chest out to his limbs.  When was it, that Hogwarts became his home?  Because despite the welcome of the Filodoxos, this place was was his true home.

 

The students sat down at their respective tables, facing the Head Table near to where the first years would be sorted.  As the tiny students emerged, eyes as wide as quaffles and black pointed hats sitting ever so properly upon their heads, Callidus thought that they looked smaller than ever.  The muggleborns were made obvious by the bald wonder on their faces, and their gaping mouths.  He could hear some of the older students speculating and betting on would-be Slytherins, based on the first years’ poise and self-control. And considering that Slytherin was the House of purebloods and power, those bets were no small amount (“Ten galleons on the dark-haired girl, over there.” “Hmmpt, the Greengrass girl?  If anything, it’d be a shock if she  _ wasn’t _ in Slytherin!”) 

 

But more interesting than the first years were the faces that sat at the Head Table, some of whom would be his professors for his new subjects.  There was Septima Vector, a thin woman with the long black hair, garbed in red robes who taught Arithmancy; as well as Bathsheda Babbling, another woman with brown hair, an airy fringe, and a dreamy expression on her face who taught Ancient Runes.  Only one figure at the table was completely unfamiliar; a man with pale skin, light brown hair, and a wistful look in his eyes.  For a moment, Callidus thought he spotted the gleam of white scars across the man's face, but the Head Table was distant enough that he couldn't be certain.  The man's eyes strayed towards the Slytherin table and he smiled, and when Callidus followed his gaze, he saw that the man was smiling at Harry and Harry was smiling back.  This must be their defense professor, the one that Harry had already met.

 

His study of the professors was interrupted by the final sorting, and then, Dumbledore was on his feet, arms spread wide as his sonorous voice announced: “Welcome!”  His dazzling robes were the colour of a sunset - no, that wasn't quite right - in fact, his robes depicted a sunset, hazy blues fading into soft pinks and purples, as languid clouds drifted across his chest and sleeves.

 

 “Merlin,” he heard Draco groan, “he's saying something embarrassing, isn’t he.  The man’s completely cracked -” just as Dumbledore brightly finished with: “Zillyhoo!”

 

And then, heaping mounds of delectable food appeared upon the golden plates. The sheen of the gold matched the rest of the Great Hall beautifully, of course, but it was still a reminder of Gryffindor hegemony.  Nonetheless, it was impossible to feel any rancor when he was surrounded by friends.  As the students ate, the hall filled with the rising and falling cadence of excited voices, and he could hear Pansy gleefully exposing their various acquaintances who had made fools of themselves over the summer, bringing shame upon their Houses (“- and that tart, Regan Riverrun, who is far too young to be permitted to attend Ministry functions - honestly, the nerve! - ended up wearing a robe of spider silk that was so delicate and fine that when she tripped on it, it ripped clean in half, and of course, no one wears anything underneath formal robes because it would ruin the lines -”)

 

In a blur of stories and expressions, colours and flavours, time bolted past them, and soon the last of their pudding was being taken away.  Dumbledore stood up once again to give his usual speech, largely for the benefit of the first years and troublemakers (Weasleys, obviously), before moving on to other news. 

 

 “I am pleased to welcome two new teachers to our ranks this year.  First, Professor Lupin, who has kindly consented to fill the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher." 

 

The applause for Professor Lupin was largely perfunctory, with the exception of Harry, who wore a face splitting grin.

 

 “His robes are dreadfully shabby, aren't they,” Greengrass remarked, earning a glare from Harry.

 

 “As to our second new appointment, well, I am sorry to tell you that Professor Kettleburn, our Care of Magical Creatures teacher, retired at the end of last year in order to enjoy more time with his remaining limbs. However, I am delighted to say that his place will be filled by none other than Rubeus Hagrid, who has agreed to take on this teaching job in addition to his gamekeeping duties.”

 

Callidus lifted his eyebrows in muted surprise, but Harry and Draco were staring at one another in open shock.  After all, both of them were taking Care of Magical Creatures, whilst Callidus wasn't. The applause for Hagrid was far more exuberant, especially from the Gryffindor table. 

 

 “I should have guessed based on the biting book,” Draco said, his applause subdued but sincere. “Do you suppose this means we'll spend our classes studying Norberta?  I certainly hope so.”

 

Harry merely flashed a blinding grin, and they turned their attention back to Hagrid who was wiping his eyes on the tablecloth. Then, Dumbledore announced that it was time for bed, and Harry quickly shot up, tugging at Callidus’s and Draco’s sleeves.

 

 “C’mon!  We should congratulate Hagrid.  I can't believe he didn't tell me anything over the summer.” 

 

They made their way towards the teachers’ table, words of congratulations spilling brightly from Harry's mouth, causing the half-giant’s eyes to water rather dangerously.  Callidus felt his face growing warm, seeing a grown man wearing his emotions so openly.  He had been closer to Hagrid in his first year, but they had drifted apart in his second.  Draco, on the other hand, had spent far more time with the gamekeeper.

 

 “Your appointment is well deserved,” Draco said, graciously. “If not for you, Hogwarts would never have had the prestige of their own dragon.  I look forward to your classes, Hagrid.”

 

Two years ago, the polished words would have thrown Hagrid off balance - perhaps he might have even suspected mockery - but the half-giant didn't even falter for a second. 

 

 “S’all down ter you,” Hagrid said, still wiping his eyes on the tablecloth, a sight which didn't even cause Draco to flinch.  It occurred to Callidus in that moment that out of all them, he felt the most out of place.  But then, Professor Slughorn bustled up to them, rounded belly leading the way, as he jovially said: “Off to bed, m’boys, off to bed!”

 

They allowed themselves to be herded down to the dungeons, the three of them warmed and sated by good food, and good friends.  And if Callidus felt any unease, he did not give thought or voice to them. 

 

-o-

 

 “What's on your schedule?” Harry peered over Draco's shoulder to look at the sheet of parchment that Slughorn had just handed them at breakfast. “Hmm, I've got Ancient Runes with Cal, then we have Care of Magical Creatures later today, and you have Arithmancy with Cal tomorrow?  I was never any good at maths -”

 

Draco rolled his eyes. “If you are already going to look, I don't know why you had to ask.” He glanced at Harry’s own schedule. “You have a free period that block.  Plans?”

 

 “I might go down to the chamber.  Oh!  I still have to show you two the alternate entrance.”

 

Draco nodded fervently.  “We can do that this evening.”

 

 “I did a lot more cleaning over the summer, and transfigured some more furniture -”

 

 “You should’ve waited!  You filled the whole space with squishy sofas and pillows, didn’t you.”

 

 “My furniture’s nice!  Besides, I like pillows -”

 

Before the two of them could devolve into full-fledged bickering, Callidus stood. “We should go.  We’ll need time to find our new classes.” 

 

Both Harry and Draco gave him mutinous looks, but Slytherins were competitive about House points, and none of them wanted to lose any for being late. Fortunately, Slytherins looked out for their own, and with the aid of a pair of sixth years Callidus and Harry climbed up to the fourth floor, along the confusing twists, turns, and loops of what was aptly named the Perplexing Passage towards the classroom.   Professor Babbling was already at her desk, but didn't even bother to spare them a glance as they entered.  Instead, she was hunched over her desk, her quill zipping across her parchment with remarkable speed, lips moving as she mouthed silent words.

 

They were among the first to arrive, and as they glanced over the desks, they spotted the bushy brown hair of Hermione, who smiled and lifted her hand in a wave.  Harry, who wasn't as close to Hermione as Callidus was and didn't have the threat of malignant fifth (now sixth) years hanging over his head, cracked a crooked grin, and sat in the desk immediately behind her despite the fact that it was near the front of the class.

 

Letting Harry dominate the conversation with questions to Hermione about the summer holidays, Callidus examined the surrounding space.  Like most of the other classrooms, one wall was covered by a set of pristine black boards.  On the rest of the walls were long strips of parchment, running horizontal across the room.  It reminded him of his muggle primary school, where the alphabet (in upper and lowercase), was taped up to the walls to teach students how to write.  Only, instead of consonants and vowels, it showed symbols, some of which were so vastly different that it was clear that the runes came from a wide range of civilizations. 

 

Soon, the bell that chimed the beginning of class rang, and Babbling visibly started.  In front of them, Hermione straightened, as if the bell had turned her spine into a metal rod, blank parchment on her desk, and quill already poised.

 

 “Well name me Chelone,” Babbling said, causing the third years to exchange mystified glances.  Fortunately, they weren't the only ones who were mystified - remarkably, Babbling shared the expression as well. “How time flees before me.  From your minute statues, I can only surmise that your minds are yet like the open seas - or should I say the primeval abyss?  No, seas would be more apt - full of deep mysteries yet unbound.  Wouldn’t want to imply that your minds are gaping chasms of nothingness, would I?  Likely isn’t even true, I should hope.  Which means you’re waiting for the Earth Diver (commonly known to the Finno-Ugric sorcerers) to seek out the sands that lie at the bottom of those endless waters, to be scattered into islands of knowledge, and I can only hope to find fertile soil in which our symbols can be planted.”

 

She was interrupted by the entrance of one of the Hufflepuffs (Ernie Macmillian, Callidus thought), who was huffing out of breath, crying out: “M’sorry, Professor!  I got lost in that weird five-way split in the Perplexing Passage.”

 

Babbling blinked at Macmillan, and to the shock of the entire class, she didn't dock House points, instead saying: “It's important to bear in mind that knowledge exists not in isolation, but like the great interwoven strands of the Fate, or as the Daoist magicians would say,  the One, which is natural, spontaneous, eternal, nameless, and indescribable. It is at once the beginning of all things and the way in which all things pursue their course.”

 

Callidus and Harry shared another look.  In front of them, Hermione was frantically scribbling away, trying to capture every word that was coming out of Babbling’s mouth, and yet nothing she said seemed to make sense. As Callidus surreptitiously glanced at the other students, he could see that they were just as confused, except for one of the Ravenclaws, who was as eager to take down notes as Hermione.

 

The rest of the class proceeded in this strange manner, Babbling living up to her name by essentially babbling the entire class.  Nothing she said made any sense, until near the very end, when Babbling made mention of the Greek Muses, Pythagoras, and symbolism, and he began to gain a small inkling of the method behind Babbling’s madness.  He wasn't sure if he was in any way correct, or if he was merely grasping at straws.

 

By the time the long lecture was over, the entire class stood up, glazed eyes attesting to their confusion, as they shuffled out of the classroom, with Babbling’s voice still echoing in their minds in a torrent of nonsensical syllables.

 

Harry's expression was pained as he walked along the curved corridor. “That was - did you understand  _ any  _ of that, Cal?  Hermione?” 

 

Hermione bit down on her lower lip. “Well, she spent most of the class talking about the myths and beliefs of different cultures around the world.  Honestly, notetaking was hard enough, and it was all I could do to keep up with her stream of - well -” she worried her lower lips yet again. “This is nothing like our other classes.  She didn’t even take roll call!  I'd say that I'm not quite sure she knows what she's doing only - I had a feeling -”

 

 “- that she was trying to embed knowledge in a wider context?” Callidus finished.

 

Hermione's eyes widened. “You thought that too?” 

 

 “What are you two talking about?” 

 

 “We think that Professor Babbling was trying to explain the nature of Ancient Runes through symbology and myths,” Hermione explained to Harry.

 

 “Erm -”

 

 “Ancient Runes are related to languages,” Callidus clarified.

 

 “Okay -”

 

 “And language is ultimately symbolism -”

 

 “Er -”

 

 “And these symbols - that is, language itself - can't be separated from the context in which it exists.  And Babbling -”

 

 “Professor Babbling -” Hermione corrected.

 

 “And  _ Professor _ Babbling” (Callidus rolled his eyes), “was trying to give us the greater context of the various runes by explaining the mythology from which they have arisen.  The only problem is, she hasn't explained the myths themselves.  She speaks as if she assumes we already know.  Which -”

 

 “Which what?”

 

 “Which means that if the class continues this way, we’ll have to do a great deal of extra work to understand the myths themselves.  Though I own, the choice of course books suddenly makes a great deal of sense.”

 

Harry groaned, while Hermione’s eyes lit up with a glow of inner light, and for a moment, even without the magic sight, Callidus could almost see the halo of magic looping and arcing around her head, ardently soaking up knowledge.

 

 “I don't think I'm ready for this class,” Harry admitted, lips drawn downwards.

 

 “I don't think you're alone in that sentiment,” Callidus answered.

 

 “S’too late to switch now.”

 

 “We can help each other,” Hermione decided. “Oh!  I need to get to my next class before I’m late!  I'll see you later, Callidus, Harry.”  And without waiting for them to reply, she hurried off, bushy hair following like tendrils of mist behind her. 

 

Once she was gone, Harry turned back to Callidus. “This isn't going to be an easier, is it -”

 

 “We survived someone trying to kill us in first year, and survived the backlash of the brotherhood ritual in our second.  Next to that, I imagine classes should be -” 

 

 “Don't say easy -” Harry growled.

 

 “Surmountable?”

 

Harry ran his fingers through his hair, causing it to stick up in wayward angles. “I should’a just taken Divination,” he muttered, “useless or not.”

 

Callidus felt his lips twitching up in a smirk, but despite their light tone of voice, the slump of Harry's shoulders suggested the he was more disheartened than Callidus had realized, and he felt a rising worry.  He chewed the inside of his cheek as he tried to find the words that would reassure his friend. Yes, Ancient Runes was more overwhelming than he could have imagined, but like Hermione, Callidus hungered for knowledge.  Harry, on the other hand, was far more pragmatic, valuing what he could use.  What would make Harry feel better?  Suddenly it struck him.

 

 “Do you recall first year, when you are disinclined to read anything except stories, like those relating to Merlin?”

 

 “Erm - yeah?  So?”

 

 “So, Ancient Runes uses two course books.  One of which explains the runes, and the other - well, it’s largely myths.”

 

 “And?”

 

 “And myths are just stories.  I'm guessing you haven't even cracked open our books?”

 

 “I was busy with Sirius!”

 

Callidus smirked, but then, seeing Harry’s vulnerability, he felt something within him soften, and his smirk turned into a genuine smile (small as it was).  Tentatively (because he wasn't the sort who touched people with ease), he rested a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I think you’ll be fine.  Myths really are just stories, and usually interesting ones.”

 

 “I -”

 

 “And seeing as you soaked up every detail about Merlin’s life, I don't think you'll have a problem with Ancient Runes.”

 

Harry’s green eyes were large, and almost puppy-like, and it filled Callidus with a startling flood of protectiveness. “Really?”

 

 “Really.” Callidus only wished that he felt as certain as he sounded.  But he couldn’t leave room for doubts in his mind - not when there was so much he needed to do this year - and submerged the feelings, hoping they wouldn’t rise again.  “Now let’s get to down to the greenhouses - wouldn’t want to lose points for being late.” 

 

-o-

 

 “I should have taken a shower over lunch,” Draco grumbled, as he and Harry made their way across the damp grass towards Hagrid's hut, where their first Care of Magical Creatures class would be held.   It was customary for Draco to take full showers after Herbology, and no amount of self-cleaning charms could get rid of the gritty sensation of dirt on his skin.  At least the cover of the gray sky kept him from becoming too sweaty as well.  That would be intolerable.

 

 “We're going to be dealing with creatures,” Harry pointed out. “You're just going to get dirty again.”

 

 “Still,” Draco whinged. “It's undignified.  If I get dirty again, then I could just have a second shower.   I feel - unkempt.  It’s unseemly for someone like me!”

 

Harry merely rolled his eyes as they ambled down the sloping lawn.  Of course Harry was unsympathetic, Draco thought.  With hair like that, Harry rarely had the opportunity to luxuriate in the superior sensation of being impeccable.  Between his two friends, it was Draco who had to carry the mantle of representing proper Slytherin decorum.  Fortunately, Draco had exemplary taste, and enough refinement to ensure that the trio were above reproach.  Mostly.  It helped when Callidus used his degreasing hair potion, and when Harry - well, there wasn’t much Harry could do with that mop on his head.

 

 “Hullo, you two!” Hagrid cheerfully welcomed, with Fang by his side, tail wagging.  Draco and Harry said their ‘hellos’ and ‘how’re yous’ in turn, though Draco couldn't help pressing his lips together as he appraised Hagrid's appearance.  The half-giant was wearing his moleskin overcoat, rather than professor’s robes like he ought to.  It made him appear less professional than he should have, but Draco knew from experience that Hagrid could be surprisingly sensitive to criticism, so he wisely kept his mouth shut, thinking: ‘I really am a most considerate person,’ with a sense of deep satisfaction. 

 

 “Will we be seeing Norberta today?” Draco asked, rocking on his heels in eagernesss. He would never tire of her magnificence.

 

A flash of teeth appeared amidst Hagrid’s wild beard.  “Nah, but yer still in fer a real treat!” He glanced up at the slope towards the dawdling students that were still arriving, one of them including Hermione Granger. “C'mon, now, get a move on!  Great lesson comin' up!”

 

 “We meet again!” Harry grinned at the Gryffindor, while Draco gave her a cool nod.  With his discerning eye, he couldn’t help but notice that Hermione appeared rather harried (and it really wasn’t a good look).

 

Hagrid surveyed the group.  “Everyone here? Right, follow me!”  The half-giant led them along the edge of the Forbidden Forest, until they came to a familiar paddock that Draco often passed when he was visiting the dragon.  He then urged them to take out their course book.  The only problem was, their course books were were  _ vicious _ , and Draco didn’t want all his belongings destroyed.  As he tugged out his roped book, he could see that the other students had faced similar problems.  And when Hagrid told them to open their books, he was crestfallen to see that none of them knew how to.

 

Draco couldn't help the sense of pity that washed over him (pity being an acceptable emotion for a Malfoy to feel).  Hagrid was hopelessly Gryffindor-ish, and rather boorish, and a half-breed at that, but on the other hand, Hagrid was the reason that they had Norberta, and Norberta (paragon of elegance that she was), was quite taken with Hagrid.  Hagrid knew how to treat Norberta well and make her happy, and so, for all his flaws, Draco was convinced that Hagrid was quite acceptable, which meant that Draco didn't want to see Hagrid of fail.  At least, that's what he told himself.

 

Hagrid held up one of the books and explained, with a quivering voice: “Yeh've got ter stroke 'em.  Look -” and as Hagrid ran one of his thick fingers down the length of the spine, the book trembled before docilely opening.

 

 “That's rather clever, isn't it?” Draco lied, and Hagrid’s expression lit up like the sun.

 

 “Yeh think so?”

 

 “Of course,” Draco dissembled, with an exaggerated nod. 

 

 “I figured they'd be funny.” The rest of the class looks down at their books, doubt stamped across their faces, but Draco merely let out a chuckle that he used for old witches with lots of power, influence, and money, who liked to pinch his cheeks while he pretended to like it at the behest of his father.

 

 “They’re pretty, er - neat -” Harry added, clearly catching on to Draco’s scheming.  And while Harry might not be as subtle as Draco, Hagrid was still delighted.  He had them turn to the page on hippogriffs, while Draco fretted because Hagrid didn't even know which page they were supposed to turn to.

 

 “Psst - Hagrid, it’s page forty-three,” he had whispered, though Hagrid had ruined his attempts at covertness by booming out: “Thanks, Draco!  Page for’y-three, everyone!” while Draco cringed.  Didn’t Hagrid understand that Draco was trying to help him appear more professional? 

 

While Hagrid began to lecture (and to his credit, he knew a great deal about hippogriffs), Pansy sidled up to him, murmuring: “What's with you today, Draco?  You're being weird.”

 

 “No I’m not,” he scoffed. “The biting books were quite delightful, and provided hours of amusement.”

 

Pansy’s eyebrows flew up, as she shook her head and said: “Hours of amusement?  You're a terrible liar.  I'd be embarrassed for you, but it's kind of cute how Harry is looking at you as if you've just hung the moon.”

 

 “He is?” he turned to look at his friend, heart leaping with hope.  If Harry really saw just how thoughtful and considerate and kind he was being, maybe he’d give up on Sirius.

 

Pansy tittered. “Oh Merlin, Draco.  You’re too adorable.  And obvious.”

 

Draco thrust his lower lip out, and muttered: “Well, you’re a cow.” Unfortunately, his words lacked any real venom.  He would have to work on that.  As far as he was concerned, his words ought to be utterly devastating, and soul-destroying.  That would show Pansy!

 

But Pansy merely gave him a self-satisfied smirk (that ruined the lines of her face, and aged her by at least ten years), and sauntered off.  Calling her a cow had been far too kind.

 

Soon, Hagrid was calling for their attention again. The gamekeeper had, at some point, wandered off, and was now leading a herd(?) or flock(?) of half-horse, half-bird like creatures towards them.  Draco's eyes were immediately drawn towards the creatures’ cruel-looking talons, and he shivered.  Of course, Norberta had even crueler talons, but that was Norberta, and she was different and special. Unconscious of his own actions, he took a step back. 

 

 “Beau’iful, aren’ they?” Hagrid said, while Draco wondered if he was delusional.  Those steel-coloured beaks looked as if they could rip a wizard’s head clean off!  Well, as long as they could examine the creatures from a distance, he was sure they would be fine.  But then, Hagrid began rambling on about bowing, and politeness, and respect, and asking: “Right - who wants ter go first?”

 

And Harry was nudging him with his elbow, whispering (seemingly loud enough that the whole class could hear), “You've been such a big help.  You should go first!”  Only, Harry was saying it as if it was a great honour, rather than a horrible (and probably mortifying) trial.

 

 “Why don't you -”

 

 “Draco volunteers!” Harry called out, grinning like a loon, while Draco wondered if Harry would still be willing to move into Malfoy manor if Draco strangled him then and there.  He decided (grudgingly) that he shouldn't risk it.  Harry was lucky he was such a good friend.

 

The next part of the class had been a complete blur, with the most distinct part being the horrible heat of humiliation as he bowed(!) to a creature(!), and somehow, through some insane twist of fate, he ended up on that very creature’s back, and then he was hanging for dear life (and Merlin!  Merlin!  He was going to  _ die _ !  He was going to fall off, and splatter on the ground, and his shattered bits would be such a mess than they’d have to vanish his remains so he wouldn’t even have the dignity of dying beautiful!)

 

And then, he was back on the ground, and though he felt as if he had been hit by ten stunners at once, he somehow managed to suggest to Hagrid that he ought to use a sticking charm on the hippogriff’s back if he didn’t want to kill the students on his first day of teaching.  And it also turned out that Pansy was right: Harry really  _ did _ look at him as if he’d hung the moon, and he decided then and there that Care of Magical Creatures had been a fantastic class after all (even if he wanted to sleep for a full century afterwards).  There was no way that Harry looked at Sirius like that!  Surely, everything would be all right after all.

 

-o-

 

Draco and Callidus’s Arithmancy class was on the third floor, off of the curving serpentine corridor.  It felt unnatural, going to a class without Harry, but Draco’s father had specifically stressed the importance of Arithmancy, and as dry as the subjected sounded, Draco didn’t dare to directly oppose his father’s wishes.

 

The classroom was brightly lit by a row of floor to ceiling arch-shaped windows, the leaded glass crossed in a diamond pattern.  Professor Vector sat at her desk, once again wearing red robes, but this time, it was the dark colour of wine rather than the bright red of an apple, like her robes at the Welcoming Feast.  Red suited her pale complexion and dark hair, Draco thought with approval.  And with her ramrod straight bearing, and serious expression, Draco decided she was a rather handsome woman.  She met each student’s’ eyes as they entered the classroom, inclining her head with a tiny nod.

 

Near the front of the austere classroom sat Hermione Granger, her bushy hair the very epitome of tastelessness (or did that title belong to Harry?  No, Harry’s hair might be despairingly close to hopeless, but Harry was at least a Slytherin, and could carry himself with proper deportment, when necessary).  When she saw them enter, she smiled, and Draco gave her a regal nod, making his way towards the back of the classroom, Callidus following.  Draco might care about his grades, but he was no swot.

 

After the chime of the bell, Vector took roll call, her voice crisp as she said their names.  She then folded her hands together on the desk, letting her stern gaze sweep the room, taking their measure.  The class was completely silent, hardly even daring to breathe.

 

 “Arithmancy is an exacting study, and it is extremely rare thing for anyone to have an intuitive grasp on the subject.  What that means is that this is a science that you cannot expect to coast through.  You will, each and every one of you, need to put in the hard work if you are to pass the course.  That said, intuition is still an important part of Arithmancy, because no matter how well you might understand the numbers and their meanings, the magic behind Arithmancy may alter the course of certain numbers and formulas, and affect the overall picture of the equation or expression.

 

 “With a grasp of the rudiments of Arithmancy, you can come to understand the theory behind spell creation or potion creation.  With a mastery of Arithmancy, you can predict even more complex patterns; even learn to read the future.  This is wholly unlike the imprecise study of Divination.  Arithmancy may not predict the future with absolute certainty, but Arithmancy  _ will _ show you the disparate possibilities, and their consequences.  And knowing this, it can also tell you how to act, to achieve the future that is most desirable.  Unlike most of your other subjects, Arithmancy is not a dangerous study.  No, what Arithmancy does is to  _ decrease _ the danger of all other forms of magic.  With Arithmancy, you can plumb greater depths, gain a more throughout understanding of other magics.  With Arithmancy, you can do more with your magic than just Charms, or Potions, or Transfiguration alone.

 

 “This will not be an easy course.  I have high expectations for  _ all _ my students, and expect nothing less than your full effort.  This is an entry-level course, which means we will need to lay the foundations of your understanding.  Theory and memorization will be important at this level, and it  _ will _ be grueling, and it  _ will _ be dry, but it is also necessary.  Now open your course books to page three.  We will begin with the eleven numbers used in constructing numerology charts, and the meanings of those numbers.  You will be quizzed on each of these numbers weekly, so learn them well.”

  
The class snapped to obey her with a rustle of pages as they opened their books, and began to read, listen, and scratch out hurried notes.  There was hardly a moment for errant thoughts, as Vector’s voice relentlessly explained the hard theory.  But by the end of the class, Draco had found himself seized by Vector’s words.  Yes, the material was heavy and yes it was dry, but Vector’s opening speech had opened a vista of dazzling potential.  To not only predict the future, but to use that information to shape it?  Who wouldn’t want such awe-inspiring power at their disposal?  And instead of striking in the dark, instead of blindly groping for what he wanted, he could learn how to see the future, and bind Harry closer as a friend and brother.  Because if Draco had that knowledge, then he could finally, finally be sure that Harry would be unequivocally  _ his _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Professor Babbling's personality is based on another fanfic I read. I wish I could remember which one so I could credit it, but I've read so many that I can't recall


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a Princess Bride reference in this chapter

“ _...people said I was barmy.  Some accused me of being a blood traitor.  All I knew was that I hungered for knowledge.  I was convinced that potential - great potential - could exist without magic…” _

 

Callidus hadn't anticipated how much having two extra electives would add to his workload.  First year, and even second year, hadn't been particularly challenging, and he now had an inkling that perhaps, his own hubris had tainted his perceptions of his education.  And ARMED hadn't even had its first meeting yet; how was he to manage it all?

 

In their first Transfigurations class, Professor McGonagall lectured them on Animagi: witches and wizards with the ability to transform into animals.  She had even turned herself into a tabby cat with spectacle like markings around her eyes, and Harry and Draco both leaned forward, eyes gleaming with unspoken possibilities, as they intently absorbed McGonagall’s every word. 

 

 “Just think of the pranks we could pull if we were Animagi!” Draco said, after the class was done, the trio ambling through the corridor to their next class.

 

 “Years from now, which is the time it takes to successfully master a transformation?” Callidus asked, dryly.

 

 “It might not take  _ that  _ long,” Harry cut in, his fervour as intense as Draco's. “Sirius can help us!” It was only because he happened to be looking in that direction that Callidus saw Draco’s pressing his lips together in an unhappy grimace. “He can change into a big black dog.  It’s brilliant!  And did I mention that my father could change into a stag?  And of course, everyone knows about how Pettigrew was a rat.”

 

 “Yes, it all came out during the trial,” Callidus replied, recalling what he had read in the  _ Daily Prophet _ .  It had been decided that Sirius need not do anymore time in Azkaban for not registering his Animagus form with the Ministry. 

 

  “I reckon if they could do it, we should be able to, and Transfiguration is one of my best subjects.”

 

 “Your godfather can hardly come to Hogwarts to teach us -” Draco reminded Harry, his voice holding the faintest undertone of bitterness.

 

Harry snorted. “I think you underestimate the Marauders.” 

 

Draco narrowed his eyes and merely muttered something (probably uncomplimentary) under his breath.

 

In Charms, Professor Flitwick taught them the  _ Lumos Duo _ spell, which created a light directed at a target bright enough to temporarily blind.  They weren't meant to use the charm on other students, but the trio couldn't help imagining the myriad possibilities.  And in History of Magic, Binns managed to make witch hunts sound as fascinating as the formation of bureaucratic departments in the Ministry.  Of all his classes, Callidus was expecting Potions to be the easiest.  He had to secure his lab once again, but at present, he sat down at his table, prepared to scribble out his own notes and ideas rather than listening to Slughorn. 

 

Slughorn was jovially explaining all the benefits of Girding Potions (“I can’t begin to number the amount of times when that added endurance can come in handy.  How you young people manage all these  _ stairs _ so easily, I’ll never understand.  Ah, to be young again”), when once again, Callidus had the impression of seeing two superimposed images at once.  Merlin, what was happening to him?  Was this the result of something he ingested?  A lack of sleep?  Was his mind cracking from stress?  He had a much heavier burden of responsibility, but he wasn't  _ that  _ stressed, was he?

 

He could see the current Slughorn, bald, rotund, silver-mustachioed, and wearing a navy-blue waistcoat with a subtle paisley pattern and silver buttons.  But he could also see a younger Slughorn, with slightly more straw-coloured hair, less wrinkles, and a gingery blond mustache.  The younger Slughorn wasn't quite as fat, but his sense of style was unchanged, and he wore the same merry expression.  His eyes narrowed into slits as he leaned forward to take in the details of the younger Slughorn.  Why did the image feel like something out of a memory rather than idle daydreams?  (Not that he would ever daydream about Slughorn). 

 

But like the other instances where he had seen double images, it quickly faded, and no amount of staring at Slughorn brought the other image back.  He felt a strong need to learn whether the momentary image had merely been a delusion, or if it was grounded in some reality that he might not understand.  The image of his mother had been strange, but perhaps it had been borne out of a desire for care and maternal affection.  As for the Harry look-alike, well, it could have merely been his imagination to perceive Harry’s green eyes as hazel.  

 

Didn't Slughorn’s office contain multitudinous photographs which could confirm what he had seen?  It would be easy enough to take a look (aside from the onerous task of dragging himself up to the sixth floor).

 

As the class wrapped up, Callidus made his way to the front of the room to request an appointment with the professor, waving Harry and Draco ahead. 

 

 “Callidus, m’boy!” Completely disregarding his personal space, Slughorn placed his hand on Callidus’s back as if they were old chums. “No need to make an appointment!  I can very well guess what you want, and of course you can continue to use lab - er number seven?  Eight?”

 

 “Lab nine, sir.”

 

 “Nine!  That’s the one.  Just be sure you don't forget about your old Mentor when you become the youngest Potion Master in Britain, eh?” 

 

 “Indeed.  Sir.”

 

 “And of course, if you ever have need to speak to me about anything as your Head of House, feel free to come by during visiting hours.”

 

Unfortunately, it looked like Callidus would have to do so.  He was not looking forward to it. “Thank you, sir.” He walked out of the classroom with a scowl.

 

Callidus wasn't expecting to see anyone in the corridor, so when he turned the full force of his stormy expression towards Neville Longbottom, the Gryffindor visibly flinched. 

 

 “H-hi, Prince.  I - er - wanted to speak to you.  I-is it a bad time?”

 

Though it was an effort, Callidus composed his expression into its usual inscrutability. “It’s fine.  What did you want to speak to me about?” 

 

Heartened by Callidus’s words, Longbottom shuffled his feet and said: “Would you be able to tutor me again this year?  It helped me a lot before - you're really good at explaining things so that I actually remember.”

 

Tutor?  With his schedule?  “I'm afraid I don't have the time.”

 

Longbottom wilted, looking pitifully dejected, as if Callidus had just personally doomed him to a Dreadful or even a Troll grade.  Or stepped on his toad Trevor.

 

 “Oh.  All right, then.”  The round-faced boy couldn’t even meet Callidus’s eyes.

 

But Longbottom really hadn't been a bad student.  And it was thanks to Longbottom that he sorted out the mystery of magic sight.  Letting out a resigned exhale, Callidus said: “I might be able to find a bit of time.  Perhaps every other week.  It will mean that you have to put in more effort.”

 

 “Thank you!  You have no idea how much I need this!  Mondays again?” 

 

Callidus nodded, and Longbottom all but skipped off, out of the dungeons and up the stairs, attesting to his lightness of heart.  Callidus only wished that he could feel the same.  Instead, he found himself in a position of adding yet another boulder to the heavy weight he was already carrying.  At times, he couldn't help but think that people were a terrible inconvenience in his life. He was sure that so much more could be accomplished if others would simply leave him be.  With such misanthropic thoughts in mind, he made his way back to the Slytherin common room.

 

-o-

 

Hermione spent her first few days back at Hogwarts sustained by adrenaline.  When she found out, in second year, that they would be given a choice of five electives, and furthermore, that it wouldn’t be possible to take them all because of overlapping class time, she had been inconsolable (to Caiside and Ginny’s complete bewilderment).  The very notion that there might exist knowledge that she wouldn't have access to was devastating.  

 

She'd visited Professor McGonagall’s office, hoping that her Head of House could offer some advice, perhaps providing a syllabus for the courses so that she could at least have the option of private study.  But then, a thoughtful expression had crossed Professor McGonagall’s face, though the professor’s stern expression was impossible to interpret (though Hermione thought - hoped - she wasn’t upset).  Hermione had steeled herself, silently marshalling all the arguments for her cause, so when Professor McGonagall told her that there might be a way she could take all of the electives, she had been ready for a verbal battle, and it took a moment to process Professor McGonagall’s meaning.

 

Hermione's sputtered: “I - erm, wait, I can take  _ all _ the electives?  All  _ five _ ?” hadn’t done her any favours, and she snapped her mouth shut, lest she shatter the image of maturity and appear completely incoherent and undeserving.

 

The Professor McGonagall had merely given her an amused smile (if the tiny upturn at the corner of her lips could be called a smile), and replied: “Yes, though I'll have to speak to the Headmaster first.”

 

After a week of relentless anxiety (since she was also fretful about the impending exams), during which period of time Caiside and Ginny might have become afraid to approach her lest she grill them about their subjects or wail about the upcoming year, she was called back to Professor McGonagall’s office, and informed that because of her excellent character (and oh, how she had happily blushed at that compliment), Professor Dumbledore would submit an application to the Ministry of Magic to allow her the use of a Time Turner.

 

Which was how she found herself in her current situation, frantically running around the castle trying to make all of her classes on time.  Even with the extra hours (all of which were well used), it was overwhelming.  She had never felt quite so alive.

 

Thus far, Arithmancy was her favourite class.  She had already read the course book, of course, and the potential of using Arithmancy to augment and deepen her understanding of her other classes sent a frisson of excitement through her.  She was hesitantly optimistic about Ancient Runes.  Care of Magical Creatures would likely be more interesting if she could be sure that she could survive the class without the loss of a limb - or more likely, the hope that someone else wouldn’t lose a limb, since she had read the course book, and kept abreast with all the safety precautions.  As for Divination, well, that particular class left her with a sense of disquiet and dissatisfaction. 

 

Professor Trelawney had looked like a bejeweled bowtruckle, whose only criterion for deciding what to wear involved maximizing sparkle.  She was all spindly limbs with a spangled shawl and a surfeit of jewelry.  And when the professor had pronounced that books could only take them so far, that one needed the Sight to be proficient in the field, Hermione had been severely taken aback.  A subject in which the aid of books were limited?  Preposterous! 

 

It didn't help that Professor Trelawney reminded Hermione of those faith healers who claimed to be able to heal incurable diseases with merely a touch.  And when Professor Trelawney had claimed that Hermione had a small aura and poor receptivity to the resonances of the future, well, just thinking about it made her blood pressure rise, as she silently cursed the daft woman.  Well, ‘cursed’ was perhaps too strong a word; even within her own head, Hermione was careful to keep her language nice and clean.

 

They spent the class reading tea leaves, and though Hermione had been increasingly sceptical, the rest of the students were horrified to learn that Ron Weasley was doomed to meet a horrible, violent death.  Naturally, Hermione had tried to reassure him, but Ron’s face had fallen into his hands, as he moaned: “I always knew my brothers would end up killing me.  Only question is, which one’ll finally succeed?” 

 

Despite her crowded schedule, Hermione still made time for her friends.  Her education was of the utmost importance, but the loneliness of first year had taught her just how important human connection was.  Of course, Hermione would never think to abuse her Time Turner for socializing.  But thanks to a multi-paged colour-coded schedule, she was theoretically able to achieve a nice balance between school and friendship.  There was no reason to think that it wouldn't work.

 

The only thing that troubled her was how little she had seen of Callidus thus far.  True, she saw him in classes, and it was still early in the year, but she was still aware of a general feeling of distraction and absence from her Slytherin friend that made her chest ache far more than it should have.  But she wasn’t the dispirited and isolated girl that she was in first year.  Things were different now, and her core of inner strength, her deep foundation of knowledge had emerged once again at the forefront of her character.  Besides, Callidus had a tendency to fall into deeper troubles than he ever openly expressed.  And if the past couple of years have taught her anything, it was that sometimes, Callidus needed a little push before opening up. 

 

-o-

 

Draco was not looking forward to Defense Against the Dark Arts.  He didn’t think Callidus was particularly keen on the class either, but then again, he wasn’t entirely certain that Callidus even felt anything in the emotional range of ‘enthusiasm.’  It wasn’t that he disliked the class - based on subject matter alone, it was one of the more interesting ones.  But this year’s professor was Harry’s godfather’s friend, and on that principle alone, Draco was determined to think the worst of him.  The battle lines had already been drawn in his mind, and the defense professor, Lupin, was on the enemy's side.

 

His displeasure was stamped on his face, and when the trio entered the classroom, Draco already had a glower prepared for Lupin.  So, when he saw that Lupin wasn't there, he was rather vexed.

 

 “Remus - that is, Professor Lupin, is really nice,” Harry was saying, as the students took out their books, parchment, and quills, “though I only met him a couple of times over the summer.  He knows a lot, so I already know he's going to be better than Quirrell and Lockhart.”

 

 “Did you discuss the curriculum?” Callidus asked, but before Harry had time to answer, Lupin entered the classroom. 

 

Draco’s eyes roved over Lupin’s shabbily dressed form, noting every frayed hem, every wrinkle, every patch, as well as the tatty old briefcase that Lupin placed on his desk.  And perhaps, if the professor had been standing tall and wearing a confident smile instead of a vague one, Draco might have received a better impression.  The hypocrisy of how he judged Lupin’s clothes against how he judged Hagrid’s didn't even cross his mind.  But then, Draco was accustomed to assessing his allies by a different measure than he assessed his enemies. 

 

To everyone's surprise, Lupin ask them to put away their books because their first lesson would be a practical.  The professor led them out the classroom to the staffroom, which was a long room with mismatched chairs and paneling.  Then, lifting a hand to indicate that they should pay attention to the wardrobe against the wall, Lupin informed them that it contained a boggart.

 

The reactions of the students were varied, but most of the Slytherins, being raised in the magical world, new what boggarts were.  Millicent Bulstrode’s eyes glittered with anticipation (a look which caused a feeling of cold to slither down his spine), while Pansy and Daphne shied away nervously.  Callidus’s pale face was blanker than usual, but it wasn’t the blankness of incomprehension - merely a more guarded version of his typical impassiveness.  In fact, of all the Slytherins, only Harry did not seem to know what a boggart was.

 

Draco studied the wobbling wardrobe with apprehension.  He knew that boggart's were shapeshifters that took the form of what they feared the most, and that itself would be disturbing enough, but as a Slytherin, it was made worse by the fact that the students would be revealing their fears to each other.  Information like that would have made the perfect blackmail material, except for the fact that everyone would know everyone else's weaknesses.  What was just as alarming was the potential for humiliation. 

 

 “Tell me that exposing us to potential trauma has at least been approved by the Board of Governors.” The words slipped out before Draco could think, his anxiety masked in a heavy, sarcastic drawl.

 

 “Draco!” Harry whispered crossly.

 

But unlike Hagrid, Lupin was not so easily ruffled. “The Headmaster himself has approved of using the boggart for our lessons.” Lupin gave him a small smile before addressing the rest of the class. “There's no need for any of you to be afraid.  I'll be supervising the entire lesson to ensure that nothing gets out of hand.”

 

Draco saw red, and his hand twitched for his wand.  How dare Lupin suggest that he might be afraid!  But before Draco could give any sort of retort, Lupin was already continuing with the lesson, explaining the  _ Riddikulus _ charm that repelled the boggarts, and having them practice it.  He knew that they were supposed to focus on something that they found amusing, but all Draco could think about was throwing Lupin into the lake and having the giant squid finish him off. 

 

 “Now, I'm going to need assistance for this next part,” Lupin continued. “How about you.  Tracey is it?”

 

The brown-haired girl stepped forward reluctantly. “Tracey Davis, sir.”

 

Lupin gave her a warm smile (which Draco was determined to label as patronizing). “To begin with, can you tell us what you're most afraid of?”

 

Davis bit her lower lip, glancing towards the other Slytherins.  And with a voice that was scarce more than a whisper, she said: “Rodents of Unusual Size - sir.”

 

There were a few snickers from the students, but Lupin merely replied: “Ah, yes, quite understandable.  Vicious creatures, those.”  He then proceeded to explain how Davis could go about making the Rodents of Unusual Size into something comical, and when Lupin finally opened the wardrobe handle with the swirl of his wand, Davis stammered out a high-pitched: “ _ R-riddikulus _ !”  A loud cracking sound rent the air, and the Rodent of Unusual Size turned into a rather adorable rodent of usual size that was something between a bunny and a hamster, fluffy and blonde.  When the rest of the girls spotted it, they couldn’t help cooing and giggling.

 

Blaise Zabini was next, and with a crack, the usual-sized rodent turned into a copy of Blaise.  Only, it was Blaise at his ugliest, with pimples marring his skin, disheveled dandruff-y hair, and robes that were at least three years out of style.  Though some of the students let out muffled laughter, Draco eyed the hideous vision with a twinge of sympathy.  What if his boggart showed something similiar?  How could he ever face his peers again?

 

Shakily, Blaise said: “ _ Riddikulus _ ,” his voice lacking its mellifluous timbre, and ugly-boggart-Blaise turned into handsome-knightly-Blaise, riding, of all things, a unicorn decked out like a warhorse in silver and green.

 

Millicent was next, and considering how fearless the girl was, the other students leaned forward, curious to know what Millicent feared the most.  With a crack, the unicorn-riding Blaise dissolved and the room turned into pure blackness.  Around him, Draco could hear startled gasps.  The darkness was absolute.  Was Millicent afraid of the dark?  He supposed it made sense.  Darkness wasn’t something that a person could punch into submission.  It was all encompassing, inescapable, unless a person had a source of light.

 

Millicent’s voice shouted: “ _ Riddikulus _ !” and the room burst into brilliant rainbow sparkles, each sparkle giving off a shimmering glow of brightness.

 

She was followed by Daphne Greengrass, whose boggart turned into her mother, saying: “I’m sorry, dear, but the truth is, you’re not  _ really _ a pureblood.”  Daphne had burst into tears.  Then, it was Pansy, and unsurprisingly, her boggart was also her parents, but instead, they were saying: “You should have been paying more attention, Pansy.  If you had paid more attention, and learned their secrets, we would have  _ known _ , but instead, we had to act blindly.  You’ve ruined the family Pansy.  You’ve ruined the family.”  Pansy’s  _ Riddikulus _ had almost been screamed.

 

Theodore Nott was next, his face decidedly pale.  The boggart let out another crack, and Pansy’s parents turned into an old man with a passing resemblance to Theo.  Draco recognized the man as Theo’s father.  The man was wearing black robes, but his face was florid with rage, and in his hands, he held out a mask with snake-like eye-slits.  Only, instead of the mask facing towards the elder Nott, it was facing towards Theo.  Theo’s father was snarling: “Wear it!  Wear it!”

 

The sight of it filled the entire room with shock.  But before Lupin could intervene, Theo cried: “ _ Riddikulus _ ,” and his father’s Death Eater robes turned into a set of very feminine formal gowns covered in ruffles and lace.  As comical as the sight was, no one laughed.  His head held high, Theo stepped away from the boggart, blind to Lupin’s concerned expression.

 

 “You’re next, Prince,” Theo said, his voice emotionless.

 

Callidus nodded, and quickly made his way towards the wardrobe.  Draco had a feeling that his friend wasn’t eager to face his fears, but instead, like the rest of the Slytherins, wanted to protect a fellow Housemate by distracting everyone from what they had just seen.  Theo’s father had never gone to Azkaban for his involvement in the wizarding war and his support for the Dark Lord, but it was still a threat to the family if Mr Nott’s Death Eater status were to be widely broadcasted - especially in a time of peace like it was now.  It was only because everyone was so intent on the wardrobe that none of them noticed Lupin’s wide-eyed expression as his eyes fell upon Callidus, a mixture of incredulity and disbelief.

 

The cracking sound once again cut through the air, and Callidus was faced with a stern-looking man that was unfamiliar to Draco.  The man wore robes that indicated Mastery, and his rumbly voice intoned: “I’m sorry Mr Prince, but you’ve failed your Potions Mastery.  You’re a fool for thinking you had a chance to become the youngest Potion Master.  In fact, your supposed discoveries are old knowledge, and your results quite mediocre.  Perhaps you should look into a career of teaching, so long as you only stick to first and second year students.”

 

The colour drained from Callidus’s face, and his hand was shaking as he lifted his wand.  Through great effort, he managed to turn the Potions Master into a dunce cap wearing buffoon, and stalked away.

 

 “Very good, ah - Cal-lidus, is it?” said Lupin, tripping over the name. 

 

Callidus gave a curt nod, barely acknowledging Lupin’s existence (to Draco’s pleasure).  Draco’s turn was next, and with trepidation, he stepped up to the boggart.  He was proud to have not flinched when it let loose that whip-crack sound, but when the boggart transformed, he was perplexed by what he saw.  The boggart kept shifting back and forth between his father and Harry, settling on a strange hybrid that somehow looked like both and neither at the same time.  His father-Harry was saying: “You’re not worthy,” and if it were one or the other, Draco would have been distraught.  As it was, he was only confused.  The boggart was simple enough to repel, and he walked away, feeling as if he had been let off easy.

 

And finally, it was Harry’s turn.  Harry’s lips were pressed together, but his green eyes shone with resolve as he stepped forward.  Lupin placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder (and Draco wanted to hex that hand off so very, very much), and softly said: “Are you sure, Harry?”

 

Obstinately, Harry answered (just as quietly): “It’s not Vold - him.  If I thought it was, I wouldn’t do this.”

 

Lupin nodded and allowed Harry to take his turn.  As much as it had irritated Draco to see any degree of closeness between Harry and Lupin, their brief conversation had intrigued him.  Had Lupin thought that Harry’s greatest fear would be the Dark Lord?  Or had Draco misheard.   He watched the boggart’s transformation with fascination, only to see it change into what looked like a Ministry official.  The Ministry official’s expression was implacable, as he said: “After consulting with the Healers at St Mungo’s, we’ve decided that Sirius Black is unfit in every sense, and he has to go back to Azkaban.”

 

 “No!” Harry cried. “No!  He was acquitted!”

 

 “Your guardianship will return to the Dursleys,” the Ministry official continued. “In fact, for your own safety, it’s best if you never leave the house, not even for Hogwarts.”

 

 “You can’t!  You -  _ Rid-riddikulus _ !”

 

The rest of the class was focused on Harry’s boggart, but Draco had been watching his best friend the entire time.  Harry’s worst fear was losing Sirius?  But he had barely even spent any time with him.  So why?  If Harry was so afraid of losing someone, Harry should have been afraid of losing Draco.  Draco had been his friend since first year, and with Callidus, the three of them did everything together.  How could Harry possibly care more about his Godfather than about his own best friend and brother? 

 

His stream of thoughts was savagely interrupted by a piercing pain in his chest, and with a gasp, he forced down his feelings of betrayal.  Lupin was saying something, but the professor’s words sounded like no more than the distant droning of insects.

 

But then, Harry and Callidus were by his side, and as he looked into those frantic green eyes, he felt himself calming down.  Harry cared about him.  Perhaps this whole boggart matter was just a misunderstanding.  After all, the boggart couldn't even get his own fears right. 

 

 “Do you three need to go to the infirmary?” he heard Lupin ask.  And while, at any other time, he would have resented the implication of weakness, Draco and wanted nothing more than to get away from Lupin.

 

Cutting off Harry’s: “We’re all ri-” Draco gritted out, “Yes - sir.”

 

And with Harry and Callidus by his side, he left the staffroom, breathing through his clenched teeth to ease the sharp sensation in his chest.

 

Once they were far enough from the staffroom, Callidus turned to Harry, asking: “Did you know Lupin would be using a boggart beforehand?”

 

 “Not exactly, no.  But he did ask me about my fears, so I had a hint.”

 

Callidus let out a low hum, his expression pensive. “He was a Gryffindor wasn’t he?  It seems like the sort of idea a Gryffindor would have - pure thoughtless recklessness.  It won’t endear him to the Slytherins, you know -”

 

 “I thought the lesson was interesting!  But -” Harry bit his lower lip, “yeah, I reckon some of the fears were kinda personal.  But we still learned something!”

  
Somehow, Draco managed to refrain from making a biting comment.  He was relieved to be away from Lupin’s gentle voice, and caring semblance.  But although the trio were now well away from the defense professor, Draco’s cancerous dislike only metastasized.  He didn’t trust Sirius Black and he didn’t trust Lupin, and somehow - somehow, he would make Harry see it.  Harry may have blinded himself to their faults, but Draco would root them out, and when he exposed them, Harry would learn that Draco had been right all along, and only then would everthing finally be well.


	6. Chapter 6

“... _ muggle technology was so much more advanced than anything we learned in Muggle Studies.  I was curious how our professors liked to discuss how muggles managed their lives without magic, but never wanted to express how muggles surpassed us.  After all, wizards never made it to the moon.  But back then, I think I allowed my enthusiasm to blind me.  After all, power of any sort is a double-edged blade…” _

 

 “It won't work.”  Callidus’s voice had become increasingly low and flat in proportion to his growing frustration. 

 

He, Harry, and Draco were standing in a dead-end corridor of the dungeon, which was supposed to be the alternate entrance to the secret chamber, far past a long row of empty cells with broken benches and rusted chains. The only light here was the cold white  _ lumos  _ from their wands, since this particular corridor lacked any wall sconces.  In this dark space, the forbidding grey stones appeared black, and even more ominous were the cobwebs that drapes down from the ceiling like dementor’s rags.  It was as if this particular space was lost to even the house elves.

 

 “It should work,” Harry insisted. “It's different from the bathroom entrance, but it's only one extra word.  ‘Unravel’ and ‘open.’ I got the idea to say ‘unravel’ because of all the snakes.  I reckoned they had to mean  _ something _ .”

 

 “I have been saying unravel and open.”  Despite his colourless tone, Callidus had curled his fingers around his wand, wanting nothing more than to blast a hole in the cursed wall. “I have even attempted to match your inflection.”

 

Callidus and Draco were attempting to enter the secret chamber.  After the hectic rush of their first week, they were settling into their new schedules, which freed up their minds to consider other matters - most especially ARMED.  Both Callidus and Draco were aware of the importance of controlling their image in order to control the impression of others, and as third years, they needed to hoard every advantage, like avaricious goblins.  Contrary to what Draco might believe, the trio weren’t so magically exceptional so as to have the other Slytherins bowing down to their innumerable merits.  And since Harry still had no inclination for the spotlight, Callidus and Draco realized that they would need to be the ones to open the chamber, if only to add legitimacy to their leadership claims.  Unfortunately, this was how they learned that Harry was the only one capable of entering the secret chamber.

 

Harry pressed his lips together as he cogitated, the wand light making him appear like an unearthly being, pale, childlike, and fey. “It kinda helps if you imagine snakes.  Like this.”  The next series of sounds that slid from his lips came out as a susurrus, and the wall parted down the middle, smooth and curtain-like.  Only, Callidus wasn't focused on the entrance; he realized that all the previous instances when he had heard Harry hissing at the doors wasn't merely a meaningless sound of frustration as he had first assumed.

 

 “Harry -” Draco spoke before Callidus could have done. “When you say you imagine snakes, do you mean you picture them, or you imagine speaking to them.”

 

 “Erm,” Harry’s gaze became distant as he consulted the mental images. “I dunno.  Both?  Just try it.”

 

 “You  _ do  _ realize that what you said came out as a hiss, don’t you?”

 

Harry glanced from Draco to Callidus, bewildered.

 

 “I heard your words as a hiss as well,” Callidus confirmed. “This time and the others.”

 

 “But I was speaking English!  Unravel. Open.”

 

 “Were you imagining snakes?” Callidus asked.

 

Harry gave him a mutinous look, and when he spoke again, the sounds were most definitely sibilant.  Callidus and Draco exchanged a glance that spoke of similar conclusions.

 

 “We need a snake,” Callidus said. “To be sure.”

 

 “What?  What are you two going on about?”

 

 “Hagrid!” When Draco saw Harry’s puzzled expression, he explicated: “Hagrid should have snakes.”

 

 “What does that have to -”

 

 “You might be a Parselmouth!” Draco interrupted, reaching out to grab Harry’s robes.

 

 “It’s nearly curfew,” Callidus pointed out.  But Draco was already rushing off, pulling Harry behind him, as Harry asked: “Parselmouth?”

 

 “We can use the Camouflage Potion,” Draco called out to Callidus. “We haven't even had an opportunity to, so far this year.  And a Parselmouth is someone who speaks to snakes.”

 

 “Oh. I didn't realize there was a word for it.  I did speak to a snake once, when the Dursleys took me to a zoo.”

 

Draco abruptly stopped, causing Harry and then Callidus to stumble into him. 

 

Flustered, Harry burst out:  “What did you -”

 

 “You spoke to snakes before?” Draco’s eyes were wide, gleaming silver under the torch light.  He appeared completely unruffled by the fact that his friends had just run into him, something that would ordinarily provoke a snide remark or two.

 

 “Erm, yes?”

 

 “You’re quite certain about this?” Callidus asked.

 

Harry scowled, cross at being doubted. “Of course!  It said something about Brazil.  I think.  It was years ago!  What’s this all about, anyway?  I thought you two wanted to get into the chamber?  Why do you keep looking at each other that way?”

 

Callidus and Draco returned their gaze to Harry. “Being able to speak Parseltongue is a rare ability,” Draco explained. 

 

 “Erm -”

 

 “Salazar Slytherin and his descendants spoke to snakes.  The last known Parselmouth was -” Draco faltered.

 

 “Was - ?”

 

 “The Dark Lord,” Draco finished, softly, unable to meet Harry’s eyes.

 

 “Oh.  Last known - er, just how rare is this ability?” 

 

 “Very,” Callidus answered. “I only know of Salazar Slytherin, Herpo the foul, and the Dark Lord.  I believe I read that there are others around India and China, but little is known about them.” 

 

 “So, erm - neither of you can speak, er, parsel - um -”

 

 “Neither of us can speak Parseltongue, no,” Callidus said.

 

 “And I’m certain the Potters aren’t descendants of Slytherin.” Draco paused. “Fairly certain.”

 

Harry let out a hum, his eyebrows knit. “Let’s go see Hagrid, then.  I - I want to make sure.” The furrows smoothed out as his expression brightened. “And if I really  _ can _ speak to snakes, could you imagine all the new ways we could prank people?”

 

Callidus rolled his eyes, and followed Harry and Draco as the pair began an animated discussion about how they could use Harry’s newly discovered ability (to make people laugh, as Harry imagined, or to terrorize others, as Draco mused with a predatory smile).  

 

The trio made their ways across the grounds with minimal regards for caution, confident in the ability of the Camouflage and Foot Silencing Potions to guard their presence and identities.  Harry had long ago discovered a simple charm that allowed them to temporarily sense one another’s presence, so they did not have to cling to each other’s robes.  Harry had learned the spell from a parenting book, of all things, but Harry had justified it by claiming it contained a treasure trove of prank-relevant spells.  And while the spell was meant for parents and newly-independent toddlers with a penchant for wandering into mischief, the brotherhood ritual offered a loophole that strengthened their connection enough for the charm to work.

 

As they neared Hagrid’s hut, they slowed their pace.  Unlike the disillusionment charm, the Camouflage Potion could not be dispelled with a mere  _ finite incantatem _ , so the trio needed to wait for their miniscule dose to wear off.  But with Draco’s impatience, he was already knocking at the half-giant’s door despite appearing half see-through.

 

Fang could be heard whining excitedly as Hagrid grumbled, the whump of his footsteps like dropping bags of sand. “Who could be visitin’ at this time o’ night?”

 

The door swung open, and the fire within illuminated the trio’s now-visible faces.  “Wha - Draco?  Harry?  An’ Cal!  What’re yeh doin’ here?  S’past curfew!  Is somethin’ wrong?”

 

Draco imperiously waved away Hagrid's concerns. “Nothing’s wrong.  We came to ask if you had a snake.”

 

 “Since you know so much about creatures,” Harry added, his smile mildly sheepish as if realizing their intrusiveness.  Callidus merely gave the gamekeeper a respectful nod.

 

 “A snake?  Why would yeh be wanting a snake?” 

 

Draco’s smile was decidedly smug, and he swept his arm towards Harry with a dramatic flair. “Harry might be a Parselmouth.”

 

 “What?!” Hagrid’s beetle black eyes widened as his mouth fell open.  He looked between the blond and the raven-haired boy.  “What’re yeh goin’ on about, Draco?  Harry can’t be - Harry can’t be a Parselmouth!” 

 

 “Well, we’ll know for sure if you bring us a snake, won’t we?” Draco replied, impatience giving his voice a condescending undertone which caused Hagrid to flinch.

 

Harry gave Draco a reproving frown before looking up at Hagrid.  “Why can’t I be a Parselmouth?”

 

 “Because speaking Parseltongue’s the mark o’ Dark Wizards!”

 

The colour quickly bled out of Harry’s cheeks. “I’m not a Dark Wizard!”

 

 “The ability to speak to serpents says nothing about the Light of Dark affinity of a witch or wizard,” Callidus said sharply, knowing how sensitive Harry was about Dark Magic after the dragon-fang incident.

 

 “Being a parselmouth is a much-honoured magical gift,” Draco added. “I wish  _ I _ were a parselmouth.” He returned his attention to the gamekeeper. “So?  Do you have a snake or not?”

 

 “I - I don’t know if this is a good idea,” Harry interjected.

 

 “Don’t worry, Harry,” Hagrid reassured, placing an immense hand on Harry’s shoulder which caused his knees to buckle, “I know yer not Dark.  Not you, Harry.  And b’sides, I don’t keep snakes.  Fang doesn’t like ‘em, y’see?”

 

 “Well, why didn’t you just say so in the first place?” Draco huffed. “We’d better get back then.”

 

 “Tha’s right,” Hagrid agreed. “I won’t tell anyone yeh were here, but it’s best yeh don’t break anymore school rules.”

 

 “We’ll see you in class then,” Draco answered, as Harry and Callidus said their goodnights.

 

 “I think there’s someone in fourth year that has a snake familiar,” Draco mused, as they trekked over the springy grass back to the castle, the night air crisp.

 

 “I don’t  _ have _ to talk to a snake -” Harry grumbled.

 

 “No one is saying you  _ have _ to do anything, but don’t you want to find out?” Draco asked.  “Just think!  A Parselmouth!”

 

As Draco nattered on, Callidus glanced towards Harry, aware of his friend’s withdrawn silence.  Dark Magic fascinated Callidus, but when he stepped back and considered the situation objectively, he could see how Dark Magic could make someone uncomfortable.  Dark Magic often dealt with that which was unpleasant, painful, obscure or dangerous.  But at the same time, Harry was a Slytherin.  He hardly expected Harry to embrace the Dark, but it troubled Callidus that his friend might close himself off before fully considering the many intricacies and subtleties of Dark Magic.  Callidus might not see himself as a Dark Wizard, but he believed in using all the tools at his disposal, and Dark Magic, as well as Old Magics, were powerful tools.  

 

It was still early in the year, but how would Harry ever thrive in Slytherin if he completely repudiated Dark Magic?  And if his rejection of Dark Magic was lasting, would he reject Callidus and Draco as well?  Callidus hoped that Harry’s stance would eventually soften.  He had no reason to believe that Harry might suddenly decide to condemn anything related to the Dark, and yet, why couldn’t he shake the uncomfortable feeling of presentiment?  Why did Harry’s attitude leave him with a sense of disquiet?

 

-o-

 

_ Callidus, why haven’t you been meeting us at our spot?  Is everything all right?  We’ll be there today.  We hope you come. _

 

_ -H _

 

Callidus furrowed his brow as he read the note which a school owl had unceremoniously dropped (on his nose) in the corridor several days later.  It occurred to him that he hadn’t ventured up to the fourth floor classroom where he studied with his Gryffindor friends, but he had been preoccupied, and they had slipped his mind.

 

Harry had been reluctant to pursue answers regarding his Parselmouth status, but fortunately, Draco was insensitive enough to disregard Harry’s feelings, and after bullying (or in Draco’s words ‘charming’) one of their Housemates to loan their serpent familiar, they managed to acertain that Harry was, indeed, a Parselmouth.  Draco had been giddy with glee.  Harry might have been giddy, but it looked more like the giddiness of nausea.

 

 “You know,” Callidus had indolently said, when he spotted Harry’s green-tinged face, “contrary to what you may believe, becoming a Dark Wizard takes actual effort.  I highly doubt that you’re going to trip and stumble into it, waking up one day to find out you’ve been  _ crucio- _ ing babies and kittens left and right.” Callidus paused, taking in Harry’s expression before narrowing his eyes.  “Merlin, don’t tell me that’s what you believed.”

 

 “Er -” Harry had blinked, his cheeks flaming, before giving Callidus a tenuous and embarrassed smile. “Maybe.  Er, reckon I haven’t been very rational, have I?  But, well, thanks, Cal.  Your perspective is - reassuring.” Callidus had merely rolled his eyes in reply.

 

Once Callidus had convinced Harry that being a parselmouth hadn’t been the death knell of his conscience and his righteousness (and Draco hardly helped, what with detailing the multitudinous ways that they could terrorize the other Houses with an army of snakes), Callidus and Draco convinced Harry to teach them how to say ‘unravel’ and ‘open’ in parseltongue in the hopes that even if they could never understand and speak the language, they could at least access the secret chamber.  This however, was easier said than done.  Callidus thought that ‘unravel’ might have been ‘ssthsss’, but it might have also been ‘sthssz’ or ‘sszths.’  Harry, at least, was no longer quite so rattled, and could at least laugh at their attempts (“no, that means ‘squishy.’  Erm, that means ‘full belly.’  Heh, that means ‘I want to bear your eggs’ - no really!  It’s all one word, but that’s what it means!  Draco - are you blushing?  You are!”)

 

And because Callidus wanted to accomplish this, as well as planning out the structure of the ARMED meetings on top of his class work, he had forgotten about Hermione, Caiside and Ginny.  He peered down at the note once again, before stuffing it into his pocket.  Even in writing, Hermione had sounded so  _ earnest _ , and he felt the uncomfortable pressure of guilt in his chest.  On the other hand, some small part of him still felt the bite of betrayal that they had gone to Dumbledore about his personal problems.  Yes, it had helped him in the end, but nonetheless, they should have asked.  With everything that had happened at the end of second year, he hadn't taken the time to process all of his emotions.  And even now, the feelings were conflicted enough that it was easier to bury them. 

 

With a sigh, he shook his head, and decided that a quick visit wouldn’t be remiss.  Irritating though their actions may have been, their intentions had been good, but in the future, he would be cautious about what he revealed to them.  He figured he would probably have more time for visiting once the Quidditch season started up again.  As for his lab, he could always return tomorrow.  He had already drawn up a list of potential projects, and perhaps would be better served starting with preliminary research by combing through books.

 

As he shouldered his way into the fourth floor classroom, he was greeted by smiles from Hermione and Ginny, while Caiside merely lifted her brows sardonically.  

 

 “I don't know why you two are so excited to see him,” he heard Caiside murmur. “Don't you find him to be a fair-weather friend?”

 

 “Caiside!” Hermione scolded, while Callidus arched his brows in return.  Considering that Caiside was a foster sister, she was certainly unimpressed enough with him to be a real sister.  Besides, he might not be devotedly loyal to them like some Hufflepuff, but he wasn't the one who went behind their backs to do something that they didn't want.

 

 “Am I to take from this that you feel neglected?” Callidus asked lightly.

 

The three girls shared an expressive look. “Now that you mention it,” Ginny began, “you haven't even come to visit us until Hermione sent you a note.  Didn't you miss us over the summer?” Ginny’s tone was teasing, in sharp contrast to Caiside’s penetrating gaze, and Hermione’s oddly inscrutable one.

 

 “I wrote -” Callidus replied, as he pulled out his books from his bag, making a show of setting up his work space. “And since the three of you so often seem to forget, I  _ am  _ a Slytherin.  It would be unreasonable to expect me to make a spectacle of myself over matters of friendship.” Ah, such an expedient excuse.

 

Caiside rolled her eyes, as Hermione shook her head and Ginny grinned.  But at least the three of them we're willing to leave off the matter, allowing him to research in relative peace.  Once the Gryffindors were preoccupied, he let his glance skate over the girls’ handwriting.  The note that he had received prior to leaving for Hogwarts sat heavy in his consciousness, like a jagged rock, ever prodding into his flesh.  Was it possible that one of the Gryffindors knew that he was once Severus Snape?  And if so, what could they have meant by sending such an ambiguous note? 

 

The note itself was a scant enough clue, but a quick examination determined that it was unlikely any of the Gryffindors could have written it.  Of course, they might have made use of some sort of enchanted quill, but such methods seemed far too subtle for any forthright Gryffindor.  Besides, his first suspect was still Lucius Malfoy, but without the means to investigate the older man, it would be a challenge to prove anything. With a deep frown, he returned his attention to his book, and resolved to deal with the matter later.  And maybe it was nothing.  Maybe, if he could convince himself of that, he could escape the feeling of having to constantly look over his shoulder, while danger loomed, scratching its skeletal fingers down the back of his neck, portending doom.

 

-o-

 

With a covert glance, Hermione peeked over at Callidus, noting the troubled wrinkle between his black brows, and the unhappy line of his mouth.  Her friends might accuse her of always having her nose in a book (even if the accusation was given with an amused glint in their eyes), but books weren't the only things that could be read; just as important was the ability to read her friends.  Caiside and Ginny had always been easy to read; it wasn't only Hufflepuffs who were said to wear their hearts on their sleeves.  Callidus, on the other hand, was more of an enigma (and a very intriguing one as well).  And as much as Caiside might accuse him of taking their friendship for granted, he was also one of her very first friends here at Hogwarts, and Hermione refused to give up on him.  Her personal fascination had nothing to do with it.

 

But though she was loath to admit it, Caiside had a point about Callidus.  She had a little more faith, of course, and deep down, she believed that Callidus valued them, but at the same time, the Slytherin remained unwilling to open himself up.  Didn't he know by now that they were on his side?  That they only intended to help?  

 

When she saw that Caiside and Ginny were preoccupied with working out their Transfigurations formulas, she leaned towards Callidus, pulse slightly elevated, and asked: “Is everything all right?  You’ve been distant.”

 

He started, his frown deepening. “I’m  _ fine _ .”

 

 “I know that you didn't want us to speak to Professor Dumbledore last term but -” 

 

His jaw clenched, as did his grip on his book. “Just forget about it.  It helped, in the end.” 

 

Despite his words and emotionless tone of voice, she sensed the tension from him, forming an unseen barrier of ice between them that caused her stomach to knot.  It had been painful in second year, watching him slowly deteriorating before their eyes, and it was only because they had all reached a dead end that the Gryffindors had even spoken to Professor Dumbledore in the first place.  She couldn’t bear to witness something like that again.

 

 “We’re your friends.  _  Please _ talk to us?” 

 

Callidus shook his head, causing his near-shoulder length hair to obscure his face. “I said, I'm fine.  I'm merely trying to adjust to the added workload of our new classes.”

 

Hermione pressed her lips together, to keep herself from retorting that she was taking far more classes then he was.  Of all her friends, Callidus was the cleverest, and would most likely start asking questions about _ how _ it was possible for Hermione to take all the electives.  But before Hermione could formulate a reply, Callidus asked: “Which class are you enjoying the most so far?”

 

The change in topic startled her, but discussing their education was one of her favourite topics.   Callidus’s aloof attitude had made her hesitant, but as they spoke, she quickly warmed to the discussion.

 

The pair of them had become engrossed in enumerating some of the more obscure applications of Arithmancy, when Ginny suddenly laughed at a remark that Caiside had made.  Hermione darted a quick incurious glance towards her friend, and Callidus did the same, only to blink, and slowly turn back towards the redhead, as if faced with an unexpected sight.  He stared at her as if seeing her for the first time, and it was only because Hermione was leaning towards him that she heard him whisper: “Lily?” 

 

Hermione looked from Callidus to Ginny, and back to Callidus again.  What did a flower have to do with Ginny?  And why was Callidus looking at Ginny as if - as if he  _ wanted _ her?  He had never looked at Ginny that way before, and it filled Hermione with an awful feeling, confusion suffused with hurt.  But Ginny had become aware of the attention, and with a baffled expression, asked: “W-what are you two looking at?  Did I get ink on my face again?”

 

Callidus frowned and shook his head.  “Nothing,” he said, his voice oddly gruff, and Ginny shrugged.

 

Before Hermione could question him, Ginny cut in, asking: “By the way, have either of you been listening to that new Floo to Floo program?  The journal one with M-?” 

 

 “I have,” Caiside eagerly replied. “It's interesting, isn't it?  I wonder what happened with M-.”

 

 “Harry mentioned it, but I don't usually have time to listen to Wizarding Wireless programs,” Callidus admitted.

 

Hermione wracked her memory.  “I think I heard Lavender and Parvati discussing it.”

 

Ginny grinned, leaping into an excited and extended monologue about how thrilling the program was so far, and how bizarre and alien some of the muggle technology discussed was.  But Hermione only listened with half an ear; she was far more distracted by Callidus and the new mystery that surrounded him.  What was he not telling her?  And why was he now making a pertinacious effort to avoid looking at Ginny?

 

Her determination to speak to Callidus was chipped away as Ginny and Caiside continued to babble, dissolving into uncertainty.  Just because Callidus had looked at Ginny, it didn't necessarily mean anything.  It wasn't as if he had ever looked at her that way before, and perhaps Hermione had imagined the whole thing.  Her mind a snarled mess of confusion, she decided to let the matter go.  And when Callidus eventually left (earlier than usual), still she said nothing.  Whatever her feelings for Callidus were, it mattered more that she was a good friend.  And besides, wasn’t Ginny still infatuated with Harry?   The thought should have been reassuring, but for reasons that Hermione couldn't explain, it wasn't.

 

-o-

 

It was rather terrifying, how rapidly each day bled into the next, and before Callidus had a moment to truly gather himself, it was past mid-month, and the evening of the first ARMED meeting.  He had put up a notice on the board in the Slytherin common room, but had neglected to add his name, for fear that it would deter club members who might judge him before they knew him. 

 

But at the moment, standing in the common room with the other milling students, he was regretting his choice.  At least if he had used his name, then the interested club members that came would have already accepted him, or at least would have been open to the possibility.  But with the crowd he now faced, he had put himself in a position of potential rejection and humiliation.  That itself was bad enough, but Hogwarts was his  _ home _ .  Of all places, he wanted to belong here, more than he wanted to belong elsewhere.  His palms were damp, and his heart lashed wildly in his chest, and it was all he could do to keep himself from running away.  Curiously, the sight of Draco’s utter confidence helped to still some of his fears, even if Draco’s confidence came more from his name and status, rather than from merit.

 

Using a mild  _ sonorus _ charm, he called out for the room’s attention. “Is everybody here for the ARMED meeting?”  The eyes that turned to look at him only served to amplify his anxiety. “We’ll be having our meeting at a secret location.  Please follow me.” 

 

He could hear perplexed whispers from the assembled Slytherins, many of them wondering about his identity, but their curiosity overrode their uncertainty, and they followed, some grumbling, some silent.  With the trio at the front, they made their way to the part of the dungeons that were most dungeon-like, until they reached the secret chamber’s alternate entryway.

 

 “Where is this place?” one of the upperclassmen asked with a belligerent undertone.

 

 “This is the secret entrance to ARMED’s meeting place,” Callidus coolly explained.  He turned towards the dark wall, his wand held high, and hissed.   Despite frequent practice, neither he nor Draco were able to perfect their pronunciation, but with repeated attempts, they were able to say the right words at least some of the time.  It was a gamble Callidus was willing to take.  After all, only Harry would understand them.

 

He waited for the stones to part, but nothing happened, and he hissed again.  Some of the Slytherins were murmuring their doubts, and it wasn't until Callidus’s third attempt, chest tight and mind screaming failure and panic (and run!  _ run _ !), that the stones silently separated.  The rush of his relief almost made him crumble.  Instead, he stepped forward, leading the now quiet Slytherins. 

 

This particular passageway led almost directly into the vast space of the secret chamber, emerging between the towering stone snakes that guarded the room.  Despite the awed gasps from the other students, Callidus’s frazzled nerves made it impossible for him to derive any satisfaction from the situation.

 

 “That - that's Salazar Slytherin!” one of the girl’s exclaimed, pointing at the colossal statue. 

 

 “What is this place?”

 

 “Is this the Chamber of Secrets?”

 

 “Can it really be?”

 

 “How did you find this place?”

 

The normally polished demeanour of the older Slytherins had been wiped away by their amazement.  And the trio's efforts to clean the chamber, as well as the furniture they had added, including a rich green runner along the length of the floor and regal leather armchairs and sofas, silently proclaimed the space as being theirs.

 

When the group of students quieted, and Callidus had time enough to regain a greater measure of self-possession, he explained how the trio found the secret chamber the previous school year. “And yes, as many of you have surmised, this is Salazar Slytherin’s secret chamber.  We felt that's such a well-reputed and remarkable space would be the ideal location to hold ARMED meetings.  Not only can we discuss the different types of magic in peace and privacy, but we can practice spells without setting off any alarms as well.”

 

 “Wait,” one of the seventh years said, “are you suggesting that  _ you _ are going to be running ARMED?” 

 

Draco’s voice rang out, and though Callidus did not turn to look at him, he could hear the easy haughtiness. “Callidus, Harry and I will be running the club.  It will be a joint effort.”

 

 “But - you’re third years!” 

 

 “We were chosen Wystan,” Callidus answered.  Nothing in his voice gave away his own doubts which persisted, sticking to his skin like an unwanted stench.

 

 “I'm not going to let myself be ordered around by third year,” a stocky boy declared.

 

 “I have no intention of ordering anyone around.”

 

 “This is ridiculous!  A joke!”

 

 “Is Wystan trying to make a mockery of us?”

 

Callidus pursed his lips, apprehension once again rising in a slow crescendo. “This is no joke.  I'm fully committed to the tenets of ARMED, and will fully put forward the time and research to cover the various branches of magic.”

 

 “Yeah, but you’re a third year!  What would you know?”  There were numerous cries of agreement to this remark.  Why have Callidus let Wystan talk him into this?  And yet, now that he was facing the line of fire, his pride stood like an immovable wall behind him, preventing retreat.  He couldn't show weakness before this den of snakes; no, not here - here where they could eviscerate him, and make the next several years at Hogwarts a hellish experience.  Here where weakness might as well be social death.

 

 “Doesn't the fact that we found Salazar Slytherin’s secret chamber prove our merit?”

 

This, at least, quieted the other students.  A few of the students gave him considering looks.  One or two were even nodding with approbation.  But there were still many students with narrowed eyes and downturned lips, whose doubts were as cold as spear-tips pointed at his jugular.

 

 “This whole situation is a farce,” a seventh year boy sneered. “I’m out.”

 

 “Me too,” a girl, one of the seventh year’s friends, agreed.  The pair of them turn to leave, the thump of their footsteps a cold rejection that left Callidus more shaken than he expected, even if some part of him had anticipated it.  But fortunately, the other students remained.

 

 “I'm not about to follow you blindly,” a fifth year announced. “But, well, the chamber is impressive.  I'm willing to give you a chance.  We’ll say, a trial, to prove yourself.”

 

 “Yes, I'd like to see you prove yourself,” another voice agreed, resulting in a murmured chorus. 

 

 “How?” Callidus asked, raising his eyebrows slightly, and keeping his expression unimpressed.

 

 “Next meeting,” the fifth year answered. “A demonstration of your knowledge.  Impress me, and I'll stay.  Disappoint me, and -” the fifth year shrugged, “you’ll have failed.  The presumption of leadership won’t be forgotten.”

 

 “Hear, hear,” a voice agreed. “Sounds good to me.”

 

 “As much as I doubt anything a third year could say, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt.”

 

 “Me too.”

 

 “Fine,” Callidus agreed, his even voice belying the uncontrolled gallop of his heart. “I agree.”  And for an added touch of authority: “This meeting is adjourned, then.”

 

The trio led the group of students back out of the secret chamber (the two seventh years waiting at the exit with unspoken fury in their eyes), and though the first meeting hadn't been an unmitigated failure, Callidus’s misgivings were greater than ever.  A small part of him had wished that he had failed, if only to wash his hands of the entire situation.  But what kept him firm was not his own desires for power, leadership or any sort of glory.  It wasn’t even entirely his friendship with Harry and the need to ensure that ARMED remained unbiased; that the vast stores of knowledge wouldn’t be concentrated in the hands of elitist purebloods.  He hadn’t truly considered the risk before telling Wystan he would take the scepter of leadership.  But now, he had no choice but to go forward.  Because what stood at risk was his very position in Slytherin itself, and to fail now would be to destroy everything he had worked for thus far.  After all, his accomplishments and discoveries might be worthy, but with all eyes turned away from him, his accomplishments would gain no ground.

 

And so, although Callidus felt worse about the situation than ever, his determination had solidified.  He would do what was necessary to lead ARMED, even if the path ahead was littered with treacherous mines.


	7. Chapter 7

“... _ so, I thought I would venture out into the world of muggles, confident in my magical abilities to keep me safe.  After all, amazing as their innovations were, they were still just muggles… _ ”

 

If there was one good thing to come out of Lupin’s Defense Against the Dark Arts class, it was the fact that Lupin’s actions had turned the majority of Slytherins against him.  At least, that was how Draco perceived the situation.  After all, how better to earn the enmity of others than to unwillingly and publicly drag out one's fears?  Who could trust such a person? 

 

Harry had, of course, been unhappy that the Slytherins hadn't fallen over themselves in readiness to adore Lupin.  And Draco had been more than ready to offer an extended account of Lupin’s copious flaws. But fortunately, Callidus saved him from having to make the effort (and had done so much more effectively than Draco could have, not because Draco lacked the ability, but because Callidus wore the label of being a neutral party). 

 

 “Lupin’s actions exposed some very personal vulnerabilities,” Callidus had explained one day, the three of them settled in the luxurious privacy of the secret chamber, “some of which were probably family secrets.  His actions could have very well endangered some of the students, not only psychologically, but physically, if anyone happens to resort to blackmail or coercion using that knowledge.  Can you honestly say that Lupin had the right to violate anyone's privacy to all and sundry, Harry?”

 

Draco had been watching Harry’s reaction very closely, biting down hard on the inside of his mouth to keep from smirking.  The way Callidus had phrased the question meant that if Harry agreed, he would sound like a complete prat, with no regard for propriety or proper feelings.  If the notion hadn't completely repulsed him, he could have kissed Callidus then and there. 

 

 “He couldn't have known what would happen,” Harry had answered mulishly.

 

Callidus rolled his eyes. “Then you're admitting that Lupin is incompetent.  As a professor, he should have foreseen the risks of exposing people's fears.”

 

 “He’s not - well - arrgh!  He’s just -” Harry threw his hands up in aggravation, “oh, nevermind!” 

 

At that, Draco’s lips had helplessly curled upwards. Lupin’s own actions had adeptly tarnished the shining image that Harry had had of him.  Of course, Harry still held Lupin in (overly) high regard, but Draco wasn’t expecting miracles.  Well, perhaps he  _ had _ expected miracles, but those high hopes were quickly (and tragically) dashed, and instead, Draco would have to slowly chisel away at Harry’s feelings for Lupin and Sirius, both.  Damaging Sirius’s image was far more difficult, seeing as the wretched man wasn’t here, but pointing out Lupin’s imperfections was a fantastic start.

 

With the Quidditch season starting, and practices now slotted into their busy schedules, Draco had hoped that some of the positive feelings Harry felt towards the game would be transferred to him.  After all, the pair of them flew so well together, and wasn’t that a meaningful sign of brotherly connection?  Draco certainly thought so.  So why then, when Draco was the one who was his teammate, did Harry have to bring up Sirius every time that Draco wanted to talk Quidditch?  It was always: “Did I mention Sirius’s favourite move is the Transylvanian Tackle?” or “Sirius pulls an incredible Woollongong Shimmy” or “I nearly gave Sirius a heart attack when I showed him my Wronski Feint!”  It was almost enough to put him off Quidditch altogether.  Well, perhaps not, but it certainly put him off of Sirius Black.  More so.

 

It was at times like these that Draco found it easier to turn his attention to his classes.  Or perhaps Callidus.  Callidus, it would seem, had that enormous nose of his permanently affixed to his books.  Ever since the first ARMED meeting (during which, Draco was convinced that Callidus really ought to have been far more forceful), Callidus had obsessively thrown himself into research, as if a single week would be time enough to cram his brain with the knowledge and skill needed to impress a group of upperclassmen.  Wearied by Callidus’s panic, Draco had generously offered to involve his father.  Especially since Draco had been invoking his father’s name with significantly less frequency as of late.  Inexplicably, Callidus had refused.

 

 “Everyone is talking about your little club, you know.” Pansy’s voice pulled Draco back to the present moment, seated in the Slytherin common room with a fair number of other third years around him.  Callidus was too busy planning the next ARMED meeting and Harry (Draco grimaced) - well, Harry was shut away behind his bed curtains, blathering away about something undoubtedly inane to his godfather, using a magic mirror to communicate.  It was the first time Draco met a mirror that he hated.

 

 “What about it?” Draco replied with a half-hearted drawl.  It wouldn’t do to reveal the depth of his interest in his (and his brother’s) success or lack thereof.

 

 “It’s quite interesting really.  If I knew that you and Cal had been planning to lead, I would have come.  I’ll come to the next meeting.” Her smile was decidedly ravening.

 

 “Yes, it seems we missed quite the spectacle,” Blaise murmured with a half smile. “A secret chamber?  A contentious bid for leadership?  High drama.”

 

 “The seventh years who tried to walk out were stuck at the exit,” Bulstrode chortled. 

 

Pansy sighed. “I can’t believe I had to hear all about it from you, Millie.  But anyway, opinions are quite divided.  They’re making bets, you know.”

 

Draco was unimpressed. “They - we - make bets about everything.  Anything can be made interesting with galleons on the line.”

 

 “No doubt,” Blaise agreed.

 

 “The odds are against you, poor dears,” Pansy said with false sympathy.  And though Draco wasn’t as invested in ARMED as Callidus was, he still bristled at the words.  Why should the odds be stacked against them?  Didn’t the others realize who they were?

 

 “They underestimate us.  Badly.”

 

 “And if they decide on sabotage?”

 

Draco tensed, sickened by the idea.  Sabotage?  Who did they think they were?  “They wouldn’t dare.”

 

Pansy merely gave an insouciant shrug. “This is Slytherin, darling.  What do you expect?  And don’t ask me if I know.  If I did, I would tell you.”

 

Draco frowned, the question he was about to ask aborted.

 

 “I  _ have  _ heard other interesting rumours -”

 

 “Oh?  Like what?”

 

Pansy hummed. “There’s talk about a formation of another group, similar to what you three are doing, only - well, limited to purebloods.  I’m sure they’d let  _ you _ join.”

 

 “They what?!”

 

Pansy nodded. “You know how it is.  There’s nothing quite as gratifying as excluding others.  Well, except for knowing everyone’s secrets, but that’s a given.  I suppose that having you three lead your little club has stirred up some ugly feelings.  The meeting will be held tomorrow evening, if you’re interested in seeing what the others are up to.  In that room that they claim only purebloods can enter.”

 

Draco knit his brows, his mind whirling.  How  _ dare _ they form another club, poaching on the trio’s territory.  And while Draco didn’t wholly disapprove of a group limited to purebloods, didn’t the others realize that Harry and Callidus were  _ different _ (better)?  Yes, Draco’s personal opinions had diverged enough from his parents to believe that some muggleborns and half-bloods were just as adept as some purebloods, but that didn’t change the pride he felt in who he was.  To be a pureblood was to be steeped in worthy traditions.  To be a pureblood meant being exposed to Old magics and family magics and knowledge and power that muggleborns couldn’t even dream of.

 

Draco returned his attention to Pansy, who was quite casually eviscerating one of the fourth year’s sense of style to Blaise.  “Tomorrow, you say?” 

 

 “Hmm?  What are you talking about, Draco?”

 

 “That meeting.  It’s tomorrow?  What time?”

 

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Seven o’clock.”

 

At seven o’clock the following evening, Draco made his way towards the room where the other purebloods were meeting.  He had planned an elaborate (foolproof) excuse, with multitudinous details and a list of heartfelt reasons, but he did not even have a chance to use it, since Harry had once again vanished into the dorm to speak to his godfather, and Callidus was still unable to see past his research. 

 

Draco remembered being impressed by the secret Slytherin dueling chambers last year, but having seen the grandeur of Salazar’s personal secret chambers, the space was no longer quite so impressive.  Unlike many of the other rooms in the dungeons, it was oval-shaped, with a depressed area shaped in a smaller oval, in the center for the duelers.  The stones were blackish, scorched by innumerable spells, and the lantern light was bluish white instead of green, so that the colour of spells could be more easily identified.  Along one area of the wall was a row of dueling dummies.

 

He studied the faces of the other students, but in his year, he spotted only Daphne Greengrass.  The majority of the faces were familiar - people he had seen at pureblood functions when he was growing up - but he paused when he noted a group of sixth years.  Weren’t they the ones who had been tormenting Callidus last year?  He hadn't recalled seeing them at any of the previous ARMED meetings, and it lowered his estimation of this assemblage to see them here.

 

But then, one of the seventh years was calling for the group's attention.  The older boy’s speech was supercilious, his tone aggravatingly condescending, despite the fact that Draco knew he could trace his own bloodline far further back then the seventh year could.

 

 “- and naturally, we will focus much of our time and efforts learning about the marvels and possibilities offered by the Dark Arts -”

 

At this, Draco’s internal stream of caviling quieted.  As one of the co-leaders of ARMED, Harry was adamantly opposed to anything related to the Dark Arts.  Draco could always learn about dark magic at home, or in his own time, but if he joined this group, there was a possibility he could gain an edge.  And wasn't it perfectly reasonable to grasp at every advantage that was thrown his way? 

 

And so, despite having every intention of spying on this group so that he could report it to his brothers, Draco found himself joining.  And when Daphne spotted him, and tilted her lips in a self-satisfied smile, saying: “Don't worry, I won't tell the other two that I saw you here,” he merely sneered in reply.   Daphne didn't understand.  But then again, he wasn't so certain in his own abilities to justify his actions.

 

-o-

 

Though Hermione was enjoying her new classes, and would have readily argued with anyone who suggested otherwise, she found herself needing a (small) break.  A brief scan of the various faces sitting at the squishy sofas and armchairs, or sprawled on the carpeted floor, told her that Caiside and Ginny weren’t in the common room.  And when she questioned one of the portraits on the round walls, the seated weaver informed her that her friends hadn’t left Gryffindor tower (though not once did the weaver look away from her work, so Hermione had doubts about the portrait’s testimony).

 

She ascended the curved staircase, and pushed open the door to the second year dormitory.  Immediately, she could hear Ginny’s voice, though it was muffled, and she realized that Caiside and Ginny were enclosed by the privacy of the bed curtains.

 

 “Well I like her too.”

 

Caiside made a noise of frustration.  “I mean, I  _ like _ like her.” Hermione knew she should have made her presence known, and yet, she wanted to know what her friends were talking about and some part of her thought that if she interrupted, she would be shut out.  The idea gripped unpleasantly at her chest and throat.

 

Ginny’s voice lowered to a hush.  “Like - a crush?”

 

 “Mmhmm.  I overheard Faye talking to Jelena, and Jelena mentioned having a girlfriend over the summer break.  And it just - clicked, you know?”

 

 “Merlin!  So you really  _ like  _ Her -”

 

 “Shh!  Just - if you say it out loud, it makes it more - real.  I’m still trying to sort out my feelings.”  Caiside sounded troubled.

 

Ginny hummed.  “So how can you be sure that you like her?”

 

 “How can you be sure that you like Harry?”

 

 “Heh.  Good point.  But I wanna know!”

 

Caiside huffed. “Fine.” Even behind the curtains, Hermione could hear the smile in her friend’s voice. “She’s just so smart, and so - passionate, you know?  She cares about things - about things that most people don’t even bother to consider.” Caiside let out a long sigh. “That sodding Slytherin doesn’t deserve her.”

 

Ginny gasped. “Is that why you’re always on his case?”

 

 “I wasn’t doing it consciously!  Not at first!” Caiside sighed again. “Just - don’t tell anyone all right?  And  _ definitely _ don’t tell her.”

 

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek.  She thought that Caiside and Ginny were her best friends, and now, they were keeping secrets from her?  The grip around her throat tighten, and she quickly stepped away, unwilling to reveal her presence, unwilling to face anyone.  She had thought that first year was bad, but the inexorable loneliness was nothing compared to the feeling of having friends, only to be emotionally severed from them.

 

But Hermione wasn't the sort to throw herself on her bed and cry when she was faced with problems.  She may have wanted a break, perhaps a leisurely walk along the lake, but now, she felt a renewed motivation to return to her school work.  She still had fourteen inches of a Transfiguration paper to finish, and she needed to read about the mythologies and totems of the Northwest Coast Native Americans for Ancient Runes.  With that in mind, Hermione fetched her book bag, and hurried out of the Tower, single-mindedly focused on making her way to the library.

 

The library had always been Hermione’s sanctuary, but it was impossible to put off her own life and permanently retreat into academia.  And it didn’t help that she had always been a terrible liar, who struggled to bottle away her feelings.  It was necessary to confront Caiside and Ginny sooner or later, and being the perceptive people that they were, they sensed that something was wrong.  But Hermione, rather than confessing tempest of her emotions, had pleaded for space to think, which gave her several days with only worried glances, and shared looks between the second years. 

 

Though a part of her had wanted to drown the issue in the ocean of her own busyness, it wasn't in Hermione's nature to so blatantly deny something - at least not to herself.  She was able to acknowledge that it had been wrong for her to eavesdrop, and that Caiside had been discussing something personal.  And perhaps her friends had meant to speak of it to her later.  Could it be that it was her own fault?  Had the weight of her own workload caused her friends to feel neglected?  She had always taken pride in the clarity and order of her own mind, so to find her thoughts in disarray was itself, a source of pain.

 

In the end, it was Caiside who confronted her, in the long corridor just outside the common room, with the Fat Lady leaning towards the edge of her portrait, listening. “‘Mione, what’s wrong?  Ginny and I’ve noticed that you’ve been different, lately, and it’s obviously not school stress.”

 

How could Caiside tell that it wasn't school stress?  The situation was only made more difficult by the softness and Caiside’s eyes, revealed only to her closest friends in contrast to her more abrasive nature.  Hermione considered disclaiming.  But secrets never sat well within her, taking on spiny shapes that punctured her equilibrium, poking holes in her well-formed ideals of ‘honesty.’ 

 

 “I overheard you and Ginny talking, the other day,” she confessed.  Caiside’s mystified expression prodded her to continue. “About - about who you like.”

 

Caiside blanched, and the guilt and confusion Hermione had been mired in were forgotten in the face of Caiside’s naked fright.  “You - you heard what I said?  You - know?”

 

 “I’m sorry!”

 

Caiside’s lip trembled, her dark eyes covered in a sheen, and Hermione reached towards her friend, intending comfort.  But Caiside had taken a step back, and then another, whereupon, she swirled around, and ran away, her foot falls pealing out betrayal and hurt.  Hermione was at a complete loss.  The depth of emotion that she had seen in Caiside’s eyes felt like peering directly into the forbidden, exposing dark hollows that were never meant to be brought into the merciless light of day.  She wanted to apologize again, but she could no longer hear Caiside’s steps, and didn't know where her friend had gone. 

 

Dazed, she turned around, and entered the common room, blind to the Fat Lady’s speculative gaze and oily tone of voice.  She wasn't quite sure of what had just happened, but surely, proper communication (and logic) could make everything all right.

 

-o-

 

Hermione had apologized to Caiside again (after a brief, and admittedly confusing conversation with Ginny), but some foreign element had entered into their friendship, an unwanted stain that marred the easy camaraderie they once experienced.  It wasn't that Caiside avoided Hermione, nor did she act distant - if anything, she acted like a facsimile of herself, with a contrived sort of normality. 

 

She did not know what to do, feeling herself pulled in two directions.  The deep belief of open and forthright communication warred with the belief in respecting her friend's privacy.  She had been the eavesdropper.  What right then did she have to force Caiside to speak?

 

And reassurances of: “You know you can speak to me about anything,” or “This friendship means everything to me, I hope you know that,” only resulted in tight, pained smiles.  There was something frighteningly melancholy about the way Caiside said: “This friendship means everything to me as well.”

 

But September was plodding steadily towards its end, and eventually, they settled back into something that was, if not the same as before, at least comfortable.  It was breakfast - the one meal of the day that Hermione didn't typically have a book in hand (they were all tucked away in her extremely heavy book bag).  Ginny and Caiside, who did not have a morning class, were having a lie-in (slugabeds that they were).  But no number of reasons for keeping a structured schedule could convince them to climb out of their warm and cosy nests when there was no need to.

 

Mornings, for Hermione, were for the _ Daily Prophet _ , and though the written word was something near to sacred for Hermione, newspapers and magazines were an exception.  If it weren't so important to keep abreast with the current issues facing the increasingly factious wizarding world, she wouldn't waste her time with such drivel.  She skipped the headline, which was something frivolous about (ex-)Professor Lockhart's new book.  She had been secretly saddened about the loss of the charming and learned man, but his behaviour at the end of the term had been shockingly inappropriate, and she could never truly admire a man who had so little respect for an institute of learning.  But on the second page of the  _ Prophet _ , something caught her eye.

 

_ MUGGLE PROTECTION ACT PASSES  _ the title said.  As she read the article, she gasped, and looked up at Ron Weasley who sat diagonal to her at the table, hunched over his food like a possessive mongrel with a bone, too intent on his plate to pay any heed to his two best friends, Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan, who were engrossed in a debate about the possibility of merging various plays from football into the sport of Quidditch.

 

 “Ron, your father wrote the majority of the Muggle Protection Act?” Hermione wondered why Ginny hadn’t mentioned anything, until she recalled how her friend’s brown eyes would glaze over at the mention of politics, unless it was immediate and personal.

 

Ron, whose mouth was stuffed with toast when he heard his name, looked up at her, blinking in bemusement.  “Erm - yeah?” She winced at the sight of half masticated food, but didn't feel at ease correcting someone who wasn't a friend. 

 

 “Hmm.  Well it’s heartening to see that the Orange Madness hasn’t eroded the wizarding community’s sense of goodwill towards the muggles.”

 

 “Er -” his eyes slid away uneasily.

 

She bit down on her lower lip, a recollection of first year flashing in her mind, and she felt her face warm with the lingering sting of the snubs and rejection. “I suppose most people don’t think about it -” (‘though they should,’ she thought). 

 

 “It’s not that -” Ron peered down at his plate with a curiously woeful expression, as if his heart were tied to his stomach, “it’s just - I reckon most people don’t like to think about things they can’t change, y’know?  Or they find it easier to keep things as they are, the way they’ve always been.  It’s sick, how purebloods -” (here, he darted his glance over his shoulder towards the Slytherin table), “think they’re so much better than the lot of us, ‘cause they’ve got more galleons in their vaults.  But -” he gave a jaded shrugged, “it’s not like a rook’d ever want to be a pawn.”

 

 “Hmm.  That's actually a good point.”

 

 “Y’think so?” 

 

Hermione nodded brightly, just as Caiside and Ginny ambled through the doors of the Great Hall towards their table.

 

 “I wonder if I can find first-hand accounts of pureblood perspectives in the library.  I can’t change their minds until I know their minds.  If the entrenched powers think that they’ll lose something by giving others the power they have - then I’ll have to find a way to show that it isn’t a zero sum game - that we all win if we all have rights.” She looked back at Ron, smiling warmly. “Thanks for giving me something to think about!” 

 

 “Er -” he rubbed the back of his neck, food forgotten as his ears pinkened. “Your welcome?”

 

But Hermione’s thoughts were already elsewhere.  And as Caiside and Ginny settled beside her, she stood, saying: “I’ve got to see if I can find anything in the library before class.”

 

She didn’t notice as Ginny grinned and rolled her eyes, while Caiside eyed Ron with a mix of speculation and suspicion.

 

-o-

 

Callidus felt like a tangle of frayed nerves.  On top of his course load and tutoring sessions with Longbottom, he was ever aware of his precarious position in the ARMED club.  He hadn't slept the night of the first meeting, his mind caught in a cycle of self-cannibalizing thoughts of discarded ideas and vivid scenes of failure and ostracization.  It wasn't until it occurred to him that his older self had a vast collection of esoteric books that he calmed, able to bury himself in frenetic research. 

 

He had a sense of the knowledge he wanted to impart to the potential ARMED members, but for all that he wanted to impress them, to not only meet but exceed their expectations, he resented the fact that Rowle didn't have to face the same test.  Yes, she had been a seventh year, but her ‘discussions’ had been desultory, often focused on anecdotes of exclusionary pureblood events.  The themes of each meeting seemed to be based on whims, with all the benefits coming from the club’s collective borrowed library, rather than from Rowle herself.  But more than being a seventh year, Rowle had been an ‘insider.’  And no matter how hard Callidus worked, no matter how he proved himself, or displayed Slytherin virtues, he wasn’t certain if he would ever gain that status.  It wouldn't stop him from trying.

 

But for all that Callidus was engrossed with acquiring as much knowledge on his given topic within the span of a week, it didn't mean that he blotted out the rest of his life.  And of course, it was Defense Against the Dark Arts that stood out most sharply in everyone's minds.  During this period, Callidus might have been able to forget about the enigmatic letter he had received.  His main suspect would have remained Lucius Malfoy, except for one thing: Professor Lupin. 

 

Callidus hadn’t noticed during their first few lessons, too preoccupied with the material, but once that whirlwind of frantic energy had subsided, and once the shock of confronting his own fears (and everyone else’s) was no longer so disquieting and disorienting, he was able to pay more attention to Lupin himself.  And though Lupin’s actions were subtle, Slytherin’s were accustomed to reading subtlety.  He noticed that Lupin kept looking at him in a rather peculiar way, his thoughtful gaze a little too focused, as if he expected something from Callidus.  And being already suspicious, Callidus couldn’t help thinking that it could be a look of recognition.

 

He knew he ought to have spent his class, hunched over his parchment, trying to transcribe Lupin’s lecture.  Instead, he made only perfunctory notes, and instead, stared fixedly at Lupin for the length of their classes.  He could tell that Lupin had noticed.  And he had a feeling that Lupin was disconcerted by it.  With Lupin’s shabby careworn appearance, it was difficult to guess his age, but he thought that Lupin may have been schoolmates with his older self.  They couldn’t have been close, or he thought Lupin would have approached him.  And he didn’t think that Dumbledore would have revealed his identity; everyone knew the Defense professors never lasted.

 

Callidus was still trying to puzzle out a way to discover answers when the class came to an end.  The students were hurrying to put away their parchment and quills in their book bags when Lupin placidly called out: “Mr Prince, please stay after class.”  Draco glared at the professor, while Harry gave him a questioning look, but aside from the boggart incident, he was seen as mild-mannered and Gryffindor-ish - in other words, Lupin wasn't a great threat. 

 

 “How are you liking the class so far, Mr Prince?”  Lupin asked, once the last of the students had left.  Lupin didn’t stumble over his name, his expression solicitous..

 

 “It's all right,” he answered neutrally.

 

 “I notice you don't seem to be very challenged.  Do you already know the material?”

 

Callidus stiffened, managing to refrain from making a surprised inhalation.  Lupin was all but asking directly if he was Severus Snape. “I don't know the material, aside from what I've already read in the textbook.” 

 

 “Ah.” Lupin smiled benignly. “I’m surprised that you weren’t sorted into Ravenclaw.”

 

 “Neither was Hermione Granger, and she’s accounted to be the brightest witch of our year.”

 

Lupin smiled fondly. “Bright she is.” And then casually: “Are the two of you friends?”

 

Callidus wanted to snap out: ‘What business is it of yours?’  But still, he didn’t know what the professor wanted of him.  He was certain that it wasn't appropriate for a professor to ask personal questions, but the possibility of Lupin knowing his past self cast the entire situation in a different light.  He could not guess at Lupin’s intentions, and the most circumspect course of actions would be to appear as guileless as possible.  After all, he was trying to appeal to a Gryffindor. 

 

 “We are well acquainted and often study together.”

 

Lupin lean forward with sudden interest. “Oh?” 

 

 “But I also tutor Longbottom.”

 

Lupin blinked, clearly startled, before smiling warmly. “I’m pleased to hear that you’ve taken such an interest in the academic well-being of your peers.  It’s encouraging to see inter-House friendships.”

 

Callidus managed to hold himself up, instead of crumbling in a boneless heap of relief.  Whatever he had said had seemed to pass Lupin’s unspoken test.

 

 “May I leave, professor?  I have another class to attend.”

 

 “Ah, of course.  And if you do find the material too simple, feel free to come by my office for some extra credit work.”

 

Callidus thanked the professor, and decamped from the class, glad to be gone from Lupin’s presence.  He trusted Lupin even less than before, but he had other matters to deal with - too many others.  He would need to remain on guard, and continue to play the innocent. 

 

All too soon, the day of the ARMED meeting arrived.  He had spent far too much of his night reading and polishing up the lecture he planned to give, and the idea of skipping breakfast for the indolence of his bed lingered in his mind like the lure of a sweet dream.  On the other hand, he did not want to miss the morning post.  Even if he did not receive anything, it was important to know what was happening in the world.

 

Blearily, he made himself presentable and planted himself next to his friends at the Slytherin table.  Nothing on his plate looked appetizing. And for all that he had come down solely for the purpose of the owl post, he was still taken unaware when a letter fluttered down on his lap.  With a frown, he picked up the unlabelled letter and opened it.  But as soon as the handwriting was revealed, the muscles in his fingers clenched, crinkling the parchment.  He had spent all of September searching for the writer of that mysterious first letter, and just when he was starting to feel that he would never receive another, it was here now, in his hands, incinerating all illusions of safety.

 

_ Severus Snape _ \- 

 

_ If you don’t want your identity revealed, I want you to make me that potion you were working on during your time as a professor.  You know the one. _

 

There was only the single sheet, and nothing was written on the back.  The first letter had felt like a threat, and this one confirmed it.  And yet, would it be so bad if his identity was revealed?  As soon as the thought came to mind, every fibre of his being rejected it.  It wasn’t the shame of being Severus Snape; not at all.  But he recalled some of the things Dumbledore had told him about his older self - the halting and ambiguous way in which he spoke - and he knew the sort of things that Severus Snape read and researched.  He had heard the fearful way that many older students (students outside of Slytherin) spoke of him.  He did not believe Severus Snape was well loved.  And while Callidus Prince wasn’t well loved either, he was comfortable with his life as it stood.  He wasn’t ready to topple this identity for one that he couldn’t remember.

 

But what potion had he been working on?  Severus Snape had taken copious notes, but many of them, especially ones related to his research, were coded in a way he couldn’t decipher.  What was he to do?

 

There was no time to mull over it.  The day was busy with classes, and as alarming as the letter had been, the impending ARMED meeting was just as immediate, just as agitating.  At least neither Harry nor Draco had noticed the letter.  Pansy had been sharing some particularly salacious gossip about some of the sixth year Ravenclaws that caused most eyes and ears at the table to be pinned to her.

 

He couldn’t remember any of his lessons except that he managed the minimal amount of effort so that the professors wouldn’t notice that anything was amiss.  The letter sat, not in his book bag, but in his pocket, and every time his fingers brushed against the thick parchment, it corroded the normalcy of his life, the threat of it clinging tenaciously.  As much as he might have wanted a distraction from the ARMED meeting, he wouldn’t have ever wished for this.

 

Soon, the time was upon him.  Almost all of the students from the first meeting had returned, though their eyes were the eyes of scavengers, vulture-like, wanting to see his reputation crushed and tattered by humiliation, to feed on the scraps of his failure.  The Slytherins did not typically turn against their own, but the majority of them were also proud purebloods with a deep revulsion towards jumped-up upstarts who failed to understand their own place.  And though Callidus’s intentions for leading ARMED had been good, most Slytherins failed to see it that way.

 

 “Pathetic,” said a familiar female voice.  Without even turning his head, he recognized Rosalind Hoyt.  How could he ever forget the sound of his tormentor? “I can't believe anyone would let a third year get away with grasping power like that.”  There were several voices that agreed with her, but by then, Callidus was already out of the common room. 

 

Down in the secret chamber, the eyes felt weightier than ever, anticipating his fall, anticipating something to whisper and laugh about to their friends.  (‘Look how hard the pathetic little half-blood tries.  Look at how he thinks he knows so much, though he understands nothing.’)  Though Harry and Draco were by his side, lending their own influence and strength, he felt alone.

 

But Callidus knew his material, and he knew it well.  And now that the moment was upon him, the cresting wave of anxiety broke upon the shores of the moment, leaving only readiness, a sharp alertness that allowed him to clearly see the path forward, even if he did not know where the path would end.

 

He began to speak.  “I realize that Euphemia Rowle often preferred to discuss broad topics to allow ARMED members to study at their own level.”  His voice resonated throughout the entire chamber, his low timbre causing the students lean forward to hear, whether they wanted him to fail or not. “But today I’m going to speak on a specific area of magic that has broad applications: magical sensitivity.”

 

The Slytherins’ eyes rounded, and Callidus judiciously refrained from smirking.  The mere fact that he had their attention was auspicious.  It was now just a matter of keeping it.  Callidus lectured with confidence, having honed his magical sensitivity since first year.  It was an ability he frequently made use of; especially in potions.  But he knew that his words wouldn't be enough to sway the dubious and calculating Slytherins.

 

Slowly, Callidus met the gaze of every Slytherin in the chamber.  “I'd like to end with a small demonstration of what magical sensitivity can do.”  With practiced politeness, he separated the club members into two unevenly numbered groups.  Once completed, Callidus stepped back so that they could all see him. 

 

 “This won't be a dramatic or invasive display.  I'm not Lupin.” (He could feel Harry scowling at the back of his head). “What I've done is this: The smaller group to my right are those of you who have chosen not to wear items of power - talismans, amulets, stones, or other such enchanted items.  The group to my left - I'm sure you already know.  You are all wearing some sort of item of great and discernable magic.  Some of you - Takagi and Meads for instance - are wearing protective items.  Others -” he let his eyes fall on a seventh year and a fifth year, “are wearing Darker items.” He paused for a moment to let the club members process his words.

 

 “With training, even those without an aptitude for magical sensitivity can learn to gain the ability.  And have no doubt that there are those, like Dumbledore, who have mastered this sensitivity, and won't hesitate to use it.  I have been practicing my own abilities for the past two years, and you have just seen a small example of what I'm capable of.  I have no doubts that those of you who choose to learn to enhance your own magical sensitivity will perceive the multifarious uses.  Questions?” 

 

Callidus knew that he had them.  Perhaps there were one or two that still needed convincing, but those vulture-like eyes were now ravenous for his knowledge, rather than for his downfall, and as they posed their questions, their tones were measured and interested.  But although the moment was a triumphant one, it wasn't jubilation that sang through his veins.  Only a sense of relief, and behind that, worry dawned anew.  This path would not be an easy one.  He knew now that he could do this.  The only question was: for how long?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have major writer's block right now so I don't know if I'll finish my next chapter in time for next weekend.


End file.
